


Drunk from the Gash of Sunset

by CinnaAtHeart



Series: Be Near Me Now [3]
Category: Captain America (Movies), Marvel Cinematic Universe, Thor (Movies)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Soulmates, Bucky isn't Captain America though, Canon-Typical Violence, Captain America Sam Wilson, F/M, In a way, Multiple Narrators, Reverse time travel, Soulmate-Identifying Marks, Steve as the Winter Soldier, Time Travel, Violence, reverse captain America the Winter Soldier, you don't need to have read Be Near Me Now for this fic
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-01-20
Updated: 2017-08-28
Packaged: 2018-09-18 17:45:07
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 14
Words: 73,158
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9396170
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/CinnaAtHeart/pseuds/CinnaAtHeart
Summary: Bucky is scraping the heel of his boot on a root, cursing quietly to himself when she appears.--Darcy returns from her short stop in WWII dragging along a stow-away. Faced with a brand new soulmate and shiny new century, Bucky tries to come to terms with his not-as-bad-as-it-could-have-been decision, but he'll learn soon enough that he's not the only one able to 'come back from the dead'.a Be Near Me Now AU where literally everything but Darcy and Bucky's soulmarks is different





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> ~~OKAY so the name is possibly pretentious AF, but so sue me i liked the name~~
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> So this is based upon [THIS COMMENT](http://archiveofourown.org/comments/89628023) left of 'Brittle Glass and Granite Stone', and I am so angry but also not, 'cause this is like, the most fun I've had writing a fic since forever. 
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> Alright, so I do hope most of you a familiar with Be Near Me Now, but if you're not, that's okay too; this runs right off track from that story in the first chapter, so there's nothing to fear there about potential spoilers. 
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> This should be a happier story than BNMN, but it will be largely an action driven story, rather than focusing on the development of Darcy and Bucky's relationship. So Buckle up buttercup, 'cause this ride is gonna be WILD. 
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> A mighty and heartfelt thank-you to [chewingonpearls](http://archiveofourown.org/users/Reallife/pseuds/chewingonpearls) for helping me out with this fic. She is an immensely talented writer; I strongly suggest you go and check out her work!
    
    
    Be near me now,
    My tormenter, my love, be near me—
    At this hour when night comes down,
    When, having drunk from the gash of sunset, darkness comes
    With the balm of musk in its hands, its diamond lancets,
    When it comes with cries of lamentation,
                                                 with laughter with songs;
    Its blue-gray anklets of pain clinking with every step.  
    
    Be Near Me - Faiz Ahmed Faiz

 

_February 11th 1945_

Bucky is scraping the heel of his boot on a root, cursing quietly to himself when she appears.

The hair on the back of his neck prickles as air around him becomes charged with some unseen energy, and he hears distant cursing and a shout. He straightens, already moving towards the sound of the commotion, when he feels a sharp burning over his ribs. Bucky curses again, staggering in surprise at the pain, and he pauses on the edge of camp to ruck up the edge of his shirt. He stares, shocked.

“What the fuck,” he breathes, half in wonder, the other in horror.

Scrawled across his ribs are _words_ , written in a dark, bloody red like a freshly formed blood-blister. Hesitantly, he brushes over the words with a shaking finger and flinches as it irritates the sensitive, tender skin.

Words? Really? In his goddamn twenties?

A faint sense of dread settles in the pit of his stomach; they’ll be a goddamn babe for half of his life- if he even manages to live through this war. He feels ill at the thought, bile rising up into his throat, and hurriedly, he pushes his shirt back down, glancing around himself to check that no one saw, but everyone’s attention is focussed on where Steve had been, hovering around Carter’s tent like a damn lovesick loon. He hurries over to the tent and tries not to pay attention to the way his shirt brushes against his mark with every movement. _God_ , how does anyone _think_ with these things on their skin?

“Miss?” Bucky hears Steve ask. “Miss, are you alright?”

Bucky shoulders his way through the crowd of gathered men, taking in with surprise the sight of Steve crouching over a young woman. “Captain Rogers?” she slurs, bewilderment lacing her voice. She looks dazed and disorientated, like she’s hit her head on something. “Wht’re y’dwan ‘ere?” She squints up at him, even as her head lists to the side, and Steve cradles her cheek gently.

“Ma’am?” he asks again, but the woman is already gone, eyes slipping closed as her body falls slack. For one horrifying moment, Bucky thinks she might be dead, but he catches the slight rise of her chest and he breathes out a sigh of relief.

“Where the fuck did she come from?” he asks. Dum Dum, towering beside him, merely shrugs.

“She fell outta the sky,” he rumbles, looking just as confused as the rest of them. “Almost fell on Dernier.”

“Someone get me Sawyer!” Steve snaps as he pats down the woman for injuries. She doesn’t _look_ hurt to Bucky, but then again he never ended up getting trained for that kind of thing, for all that he seemed to have plenty of experience patching Steve up back before the war.

Sawyer shoulders his way through the circle of men, scowling at the lot of them. “Would you give us some fucking space?” he snaps, and most of the men back off, wandering back to their tents now that the interesting thing seems to have happened. Bucky remains behind with Dugan, and they watch as Sawyer checks her pulse and gently tips her head to the side, checking her for injuries.

“Is it me,” Dum Dum says suddenly, and Bucky spares him a cursory glance. “Or is she dressed real strange?”

Bucky blinks, and stares back down at the woman. Steve and Sawyer are lifting her body into a stretcher someone had the foresight to fetch for them. Now that he mentions it though, Bucky can’t stop looking; she _is_ dressed up mighty strange, in brightly patterned tights and a grey wool sweater several times too big for her, leaves and twigs stuck in the material like she’s gone for a roll through the woods. Her hair is long and loose, and the dark strands catch in her mouth as she’s jostled by the men’s movements. Her canvas shoes are scuffed and filthy, but the bright blue stands out all the same.

“Real weird,” he confirms. They watch as she’s taken into Sawyer’s tent, reluctant to follow them in and crowd the tent, which is small enough as it is without Steve and Dum Dum having to compete for space in there. Steve emerges not much later, but he hovers outside the tent, staring at the ground with a thoughtful expression on his face. Bucky wanders over to him.

“Well?” he asks. Steve glances up in surprise.

“Sawyer thinks she’ll be alright,” he says. His hand slips into his pocket, and he pulls out a thin, flat rectangle of dark glass. “She had this in her- uh- brassiere.” He pinks at the statement and Bucky smirks, taking the device off him.

“Weird thing for a dame to have on her, doncha think?”

“Well you’d be the expert on things dames keep in their bras, Buck.”

“Ha!” Buck says mirthlessly. He turns the device over curiously. It’s made of some kind of glass and metal composite, and he runs a finger over the small, thin buttons on its side. “What do you reckon would happen if I pressed this?” he murmurs. Steve makes a soft sound of alarm, but Bucky is already depressing the button.

The glass side lights up, and both of them start in surprise. A photograph of two women smiles up at them, wearing sunglasses. What looks like a digital clock is superimposed over the dark of their sunglasses. The photograph is in bright, clear colour, and he lets out a low whistle of appreciation. “That don’t look like no photograph I’ve ever seen,” he says. Steve hums.

“That’s- amazing,” he breathes, hunching over the thing to study it. “Look at the colours in that Bucky! And the sharpness! That’s incredible!”

“Yeah,” Bucky agrees. Suddenly, the image darkens, before going completely black.

“What?’ Steve says in alarm. He grabs at Bucky’s wrist, as though reluctant to touch the thing. “What happened to the photo?”

“Well I don’t bloody know Steve,” Bucky says irritably, though he’s just as shocked by the picture’s disappearance. “Hang on, would ya?” Experimentally, he depresses the button on the side again, and lo and behold, the picture returns. “Holy hell,” he breathes in surprise. “What do you reckon it is?”

“Dunno,” Steve murmurs. He rubs at a smear of oil on the glass with his thumb, and the picture slides upwards to reveal some kind of… well. Bucky doesn’t really know what it is, but there are little nine little white dots in a square, with the words ‘Please input your fingerprint or draw a pattern’ above it.

“What did you do?” Bucky snaps.

“I don’t know!” Steve growls back. “I just touched it!” To prove his point, he taps on one of the dots, and it turns red. They stare in surprise as the words ‘forgot password?’ pop up beneath the grid.

“I think Stark needs to see this,” Bucky says. Steve nods vehemently and plucks the device from his grip. “In the meantime I think we’d best err on the side of caution. There’s no telling where this came from; she could be Hydra, for all we know.”

Steve hums. He rubs a finger over the curved metal backing thoughtfully. “She sounded American.”

“She also knew your name,” Bucky points out. “You ever met her before?”

“No,” Steve sighs. “Never.”

That’s what I thought.” Hard to forget a face like hers. He nods towards the tent she’s being kept in. “I’d best tell Sawyer to make sure she’s secured. The last thing we want is some enemy dame running riot.”

“Sure,” Steve nods. His mouth pulls back in a grimace. “But try and be kind, alright? There’s always the possibility that she’s innocent.”

“Please,” Bucky smirks at his best friend. “When have I ever not been sweet to a dame? Women love me.”

Steve rolls his eyes and shakes his head. “Now that right there- that’s what I’m afraid of.”

“You catch more flies with honey, Steve-o.”

 “She ain’t a fly- she’s a woman. A real, flesh and blood woman who we know nothing about. Don’t forget that.”

Bucky flips Steve the bird, but he just laughs and does it back as he walks away. “Damn punk,” Bucky grumbles to himself, before he turns back to the tent.

 

* * *

 

The girl stays unconscious for several hours. Long enough to get Sawyer antsy about it, and Steve has popped his head in more than once to enquire if she’s still breathing.

“Shouldn’t be out for so long, Barnes,” Sawyer says as he paces the confines of the tent. He’s a tall, nervous man with a shit bedside manner and a habit of breaking pens and pencils as he thinks, but on the whole Bucky doesn’t mind him.

Bucky watches the woman- he doesn’t know if she’s sleeping or just unconscious. The handcuff around her right wrist looks alien and out-of-place, but Bucky can’t help but feel a little safer for it, though it clearly gives Sawyer the creeps, given how many times he glances over at it. “It ain’t right. Ain’t natural.”

Bucky slouches further back onto the crate he sits on. The woman is unnaturally still- nothing to prove she’s alive but the steady rise and fall of her chest and the flush of colour on her cheeks. “She’ll be fine,” Bucky sighs for the umpteenth time. He stands, groaning as he stretches tired muscles, and he nudges lightly at Sawyer’s shoulder. “You’ve been watching her for ages. I’ll take over. Go take a break. Win back that chocolate you lost to Dugan,” he orders. Sawyer grins at him, but he looks relieved.

“Sure thing, Sarge,” he smiles ruefully. “Doubt I’ll get the chocolate back though. You know what he’s like when it comes to cards.”

Bucky sighs and shakes his head. They’ve all fallen victim to Dugan’s suspiciously fortuitous luck when it comes to gambling. Even him. He sits back down on the old crate and nods towards the tent opening. Needing no further prompting, Sawyer leaves with a wry grin and a half-hearted salute. Smartass.

Bucky sighs into the silence of the tent and leans back on his hands to stare up at the canvas ceiling. It’s been patched up in places, a victim of some firefight or another no doubt. His ribs itch again, and his hand rises up to scratch them without thought. Bucky sucks in a sharp breath; his mark- _fuck_ , he’d almost forgotten all about it! Curiosity burning in his chest, he glances about the tent surreptitiously, but the woman makes no sign of waking, and he doubts anyone’s going to come in for the next ten minutes or so. He lifts up the edge of his shirt, twisting awkwardly to see his words.

They’re just as stark as he remembers, like bloody cuts upon his skin, out of place but not wholly unwelcome, now that he’s had time to warm to them. He runs a finger over them again and shivers at the slight swelling of the skin. The writing is rounded, inelegant, but with its own charm, he supposes. Part of him wants to jump for joy, run through the camp like he’s gone soft in the head. He’s always wanted marks- always wanted to know that he truly _belongs_ to someone. But as the years passed and his skin remained as blank as ever, he resigned himself to being one of the unlucky few. When he got drafted, Bucky had taken it in with a resigned kind of acceptance, certain he’d die in this godforsaken war.

But now? His words feel like a promise. He’ll get out of this hellhole- _he will_ \- and with any luck he’ll get to keep those looks of his, if his words are anything to go by.

Then again…

“What the hell is LARPing?”

On the stretcher, the woman twitches, and Bucky shoves his shirt down quick smart. He watches ruefully as she twitches again, her smooth face contorting into a grimace, before she breathes in sharply and tries to sit up, only to be caught by the arm cuffed to the frame.

“Jesus _fuck!_ ” the woman hisses as she flops back down onto the stretcher. Bucky’s eyes widen at the expletive- Christ, but he hasn’t heard words like that from a dame since his ma caught him stealing from Mrs Connolly two doors down. The woman, apparently, is not finished, glaring venomously up at the tent ceiling all the while. “Jane, I swear to Thor, if you manage to fix whatever clusterfuck your machine has gotten me into, I will wring your skinny fucking neck. And I do not care _what_ you Actual God golden retriever of a boyfriend looks like, so help me I will leave you for dead in your lab, surrounded by the carnage of your _stupid_ fucking machines. _Just give the interpolator a whack, Darcy. Just fix it with some duck-tape, Darcy. It’s fine, Darcy. I do it all the time, d-_ ”

Unable to help himself, Bucky coughs, trying to hold back his laughter, and the woman breaks off abruptly. Her face turns a bright pink and she shifts on the stretcher to stare at him with wild eyes. Bucky bites at the inside of his cheek, trying not to grin because _damn_ , but the dame’s got a wicked mouth on her, and the angry way she’d been spitting out those words like a curse had been fascinating to watch.

She takes him in with an assessing stare, her gaze flitting over him warily. Bucky doesn’t mind; he’s had his fair share of staring too- she’s more than easy on the eyes, by his reckoning, and the sharpness of her gaze is more than endearing; he’s always had a thing for plucky women.

Coming to some sort of conclusion about him, she breathes out heavily. “Well fuck,” she says, voice slightly nasal and distinctly American, “please tell me I’ve just stumbled into an impromptu LARPing event in Central Park. What’s the date, Mister Handsome Army Dude?”

Bucky stiffens, heart stopping in his chest.

No.

_No._

He clenches his jaw. It can’t be her- _surely not_. She’s too old- his marks aren’t even five hours old yet- _it can’t be her!_ Desperately, he searches her face, searching for something- _anything_. Any sign of duplicity, but the woman only seems to cringe at his stare out of embarrassment.

“You have no idea what “LARPing is, do you?” she says tiredly. Bucky’s stare remains fixed. She rubs at her face with her free hand. “I am so, _so_ screwed, aren’t I? Go on then, let’s rip off the proverbial Band-Aid; what’s the date?”

“Well,” Bucky finds himself saying, almost against his will, “it’s currently the eleventh, but with the way you’re running your mouth, it’ll be the twelfth in no time. But somethin’ tells me that’s not quite what you’re askin’.”

Her mouth falls open in undisguised shock, eyes growing wide. She sits up awkwardly on the stretcher, still lost for words. “I- but- you’re-”

“Yeah,” Bucky says, swallowing thickly. “But forgive me if I’m not jumpin’ for joy.”

How did she manage it? he wonders. How did she manage to make herself his soulmate? What has Hydra been _doing?_

“See,” he carries on, he leans forward, forearms resting on his knees. “I’ve been blank for a long time.” Bucky is proud of himself when he doesn’t stumble over the ‘b’ word; it’s always been a point of shame, something to hide behind a suave smile and charming words. “And then the _funniest thing_ happened about five hours ago. Right around the time you fell outta the sky. Can you guess what it was?”

The woman’s brows furrow, and there’s a horrifyingly vulnerable look in her eyes that fills Bucky with a burning fury that he studiously hides behind a blank face. “Your soulmark turned up,” she rasps.

Bucky leans back on the crate, the pole supporting the tent a hard and rigid line down his back. How dare they. How _dare they_? Soulmates are _sacred_. How _dare_ they sully it like this? The sour taste of bile rises in the back of his throat, but he smiles at the woman, a cold and lifeless thing that feels alien on his face.

“My soulmark turned up. Outta the blue. And ya know, just as the burnin’ feeling starts up, here you come, fallin’ out of the sky and almost squashin’ Dernier. But I figure, sure. Could just be a coincidence, that. Though it’s mighty fuckin’ weird you just turning up like that, _and_ you seemed to know Steve ta boot- even though he swears he’s never met you in his life, and I’m inclined to believe him there, ‘cause you seem pretty damn hard to f-”

“Steve’s here?” the woman interrupts him, eyes lighting up. “Steve Rogers? I didn’t just hallucinate him?”

Bucky’s eyes narrow. “See now, that’s exactly the kind of ‘coincidence’ that I’m disinclined to trust. ‘Cause doll, this thing right here?” He motions between the two of them and her eyes follow the movement. “This seems right up Hydra’s alley.”

The woman (Darcy, is that her name?) blanches. “Hydra…” she breathes, eyes wide. “Holy _shit_ , you’re Bucky Barnes.”

Bucky’s stomach flops. He stands and prowls over to her stretcher, looming above her as he fights to reign in his fury. “You shouldn’t know my name, doll,” he says coldly. “If you think knowing my name is meant to charm me, then you got another thing fucking coming.”

The woman- Darcy- stares up at him with that goddamn vulnerable look on her face, and Bucky watches with a detached kind of horror as she begins to tear up and cry. She curls back into the stretcher as broken sobs tear out of her, and something in him blanches, appalled at his behaviour. He’s never made a woman cry before; not since Becca was twelve and he said something thoughtless about her hair. Doubt creeps into his mind, cold and insidious. He wonders if she’s even Hydra- what if they made her do this? What if she’s got a family somewhere, and they’ve been threatened? It’s just like Hydra to try that. He knows nothing about this woman- only that she dresses strange, she keeps oddly futuristic pieces of technology in her underthings and she’s said his brand new words.

He sighs.

“Look,” he says, voice tight. “Whatever Hydra threatened you with, we can protect you from. You don’t gotta pretend you’re my soulmate-” she flinches at the s-word, and he falls silent. Darcy shakes her head violently and she breathes in shakily, obviously trying to compose herself.

“That’s not why I’m c-crying,” she stutters, and Bucky watches as she tugs up the sleeve of her sweater on her cuffed arm and unravels the carefully wrapped bandage on her wrist.

He catches sight of the familiar words ‘the eleventh’ and ‘the twelfth in no time’ and his chest tightens as he recognises the handwriting on her mark; the sight of it engraved into his very being. He’d know the loopy scrawl of those e’s and the precise strikes of those t’s anywhere. He glances up at her face, but there’s still not a single hint of deceit there, only an honest grief and fear.

“Hydra couldn’t manage that,” he rasps, staring back down at her soulmark. The red is brighter than his, like freshly spilled blood. “Those’re my words- my first words to you. No way they could have predicted that.”

“ _No_.” she says emphatically. Her hand rattles in the metal handcuff and she looks away. “This is _wrong_. This is so, _so wrong!_ You’re meant to be from _my_ time!”

Bucky latches onto her words, desperate for some kind of explanation. “What are you sayin’?”

She opens her mouth, then closes it. Bucky gets the distinct impression that she doesn’t really know what to say, and his suspicion surges its ugly head. “This isn’t my time.”

Bucky thinks carefully about what she’s saying. Belatedly, he remembers that old book Steve’s ma used to love- that old science fiction novel[1] with Weena and the Morlocks and a dying Earth. He recalls loving the book as a teenager, and wonders what ended up happening to it. He pokes at the side of his cheek with his tongue. It sound ridiculous, but… well, what part of his life recently hasn’t been so?

“You sayin’ you’re a… time traveller?”

Relief floods Darcy’s face and she nods. “I can’t prove it,” she says softly.

Bucky sighs. “Stranger things have happened, I suppose” Stark needs to see her, he decides. He’s the only guy around who might be able to make sense of any of this.

Reluctantly, he draws out his pistol, gritting his teeth at the way she flinches at the sight of it, but he keeps it drawn and aimed at her when he kneels on the ground beside her. “Don’t go giving me any trouble, sweetheart.”

Darcy nods slowly, and Bucky unlocks the cuff connected to the cot and snaps it back into place over her free wrist. He tries not to notice how warm and soft her skin is beneath his grimy fingers. Even dishevelled, with dirt and leaves still sticking in her hair and tear tracks and smudged eye-makeup drying on her cheeks, he is acutely aware of how unclean he is in comparison to her.

“Where are we going?” she asks as they stand. Tentatively, he rests a guiding hand on her shoulder. The wool of her sweater is impossibly silken beneath his fingers and the threads catch on his calluses.

“To people who can actually decide if this is above my pay grade or not.”

“Stark and Carter?”

Bucky squeezes her shoulder reflexively, ill-at-ease with her abundance of knowledge. He wonders what any of them do to end up in the history books, then decides he doesn’t really want to know. “You need to stop doing that.”

“Doing what?”

Bucky isn’t sure if she genuinely doesn’t know what he’s talking about, or if she’s just being facetious. “Sayin’ things like you know everything about us. S’queer.”

She pinks and stares down at the ground. “Sorry,” she murmurs. Bucky squeezes her shoulder again, and together they walk out of the tent. He watches as she blinks at the sudden change in lighting, and stoically ignores the curious looks thrown their way. He keeps his back straight at tall as they walk through camp, glaring at the men when their gazes lingers a little too long on Darcy; it’s been weeks since many of them have seen another woman besides Carter, but that doesn’t mean they should be looking at this one like _that_. Certainly not his soulmate. Time-traveller or not.

Steve meets them outside Stark’s tent, and he doesn’t miss the way his eyes fall on her handcuffs and the words that lie beneath them. He frowns.

“Buck-” he says warningly.

“Not a word, Rogers,” Bucky growls. “Not a fucking word.” Steve’s eyes narrow at him dangerously, but he lets it go. Bucky’s sure he’ll get a hiding later, but can’t find it in himself to care. “Is Stark in there?”

He nods. “With Agent Carter. She say anything?”

Bucky glances off to the side, where a couple of the men are hovering by another tent, watching the three of them curiously. He holsters his pistol “Inside,” he says flatly, and he guides Darcy past Steve and into the tent.

Stark’s tent is as messy as always, every spare area of space covered with plans for weapons and machines that boggles Bucky’s mind and makes the child inside him giddy with excitement. Agent Carter straightens at their entrance, the only sign of surprise at their entrance a faint tightening of the lips. Bucky glances around the large space, but Stark is nowhere to be seen.

“Stark?” he barks. “You in here? I gotta conundrum for you to puzzle over.”

He hears a faint curse, and Stark pops his head up from beneath a table. “Barnes? Didn’t know you even knew big words like that.”

“Fuck off, Stark,” he says, voice emotionless, but inwardly, Bucky seethes. One of these days, he’s going to clock Stark in the face. He can’t stand the man’s wanton disregard for anyone who isn’t Steve or Carter, like the rest of them are barely worth the acknowledgment. “Darcy here says she’s a time traveller.”

Stark’s eyes widen, and he straightens, looking intrigued. Bucky wonders if Steve’s given him that device of hers yet. “Is that so.”

“S’what she’s claiming.”

Stark manoeuvres around the tables, stalking towards them with an almost predatory grace. His gaze turns intense, fixed on Darcy, who shifts uncomfortably at the attention. “What time are you from, Darcy?”

She bites down on her plush lower lip, looking almost shy. “March 29th, 2013.”

Bucky sucks in a sharp breath of shock. That far? Truly?

“2013?” Steve echoes, disbelief lacing his voice.

“Astounding,” Stark breathes.

“Bull. Shit,” Bucky says. His thoughts race, and despair fills him again.  He’s struck by the sudden and crippling certainly that he will never be able to keep this woman.

Darcy glances between the three of them. Her handcuffs clink lightly as she worries her hands. “I don’t- I don’t know how I got here. I was just fixing a machine for Jane- my boss- and then _poof_ , here I am in 1944.”

Bucky is too preoccupied to mention that she’s a year off. He wonders what it’s like to lose a soulmate you only just met.

“My,” Stark says. That fascinated, almost greedy look in his eyes is yet to leave. “There’s so many questions to ask! So much to learn! I suppose the question we’d all like an answer to should go first. Do we win the war?”

Darcy purses her lips, but she stays silent. Bucky wonders what kind of chaos she could create if she decided to give him an answer. All those science fiction books never prepared him for _this_.

Stark huffs at her silence and his hands twitch agitatedly. “Well come on girl! Do we?”

Darcy says nothing. Stark sighs.

“Okay then. Loaded question, I suppose. How about an easier one; is this our last war?”

The woman closes her eyes. She looks torn, clearly distressed, but Stark is too caught up in his head to notice, and Bucky tries to steel himself; this is in essence an interrogation, he reasons. They must to know if her claims are legitimate or not. Not every question they ask is going to be an easy one.

Stark however, seems to grow more agitated the longer the silence goes on. He starts asking more oblique questions. What happens to Stark Industries? What about flying cars? Life expectancies? Through it all Darcy remains mute, and Bucky clenches his jaw as his questions become more pointed and personal. A strange, protective fury grows within him as the man grows more direct and audacious. Bucky is moments away from ripping him a new one- what does he even want to know the future for anyway?- when the air around them grows charged with energy- like standing in proximity to one of those Hydra weapons when they go off- and a brilliant, shining portal creates itself from nothing right beside Darcy.

“Oh thank _God_ ,” Bucky hears her say. He watches, as though in slow motion, as she twists to look at him, an anguished look on her beautiful face. “I’m sorry,” she says, voice quiet. Bucky’s eyes widen in horrific realisation.

No, he thinks. _No!_

She’s going to leave him- so soon- _too soon_! She lunges towards the portal, and Bucky watches, as though from outside his own body, as he leaps after her, his arm shooting out and grabbing her wrist, fingers wrapping around her blood red marks like a shackle. Darcy cries out, startled, and she twists to look at him, eyes wide with shock and fear as their joint momentum makes her trip backwards.

Her eyes stay locked on his even as they fall together, straight through the shimmering portal that stinks of magic and science alike.

 

* * *

 

_May  3rd 2013_

Bucky’s world dissolves into a searing light that burns like the fires of hell. He’s certain that he’d been holding onto something, but all he knows is the feeling of his body being made and unmade over and over and _over_ , the agony of existence etched into his very soul. He thinks that maybe he’s screaming, but the sound is strange and it echoes, rattling in his teeth and vibrating into his bones. He can’t think- can’t breathe- feels nothing but the inferno around him, and he wonders if this is what dying feels like.

Distantly, he thinks he hears someone scream his name, and Bucky turns blindly towards the sound, and then he’s falling hard onto a hard surface that punches the breath out of him. He gasps desperately for air, eyes wide as he clutches at his throat like a dying man. The ceiling above him is strange- too high and bright to be Stark’s tent. On edge, Bucky rolls over, levering himself painfully up onto all fours even as he tries to get his breath back. He glances to the side, taking in the ring of feet, standing about a yard away, and he stiffens at the unfamiliar men and women staring down at him. Most look as shocked as he feels.

He opens his mouth to ask something, but he hears a faint groan and Bucky remembers with sudden clarity what he’s just done.

Fuck.

_FUCK!_

“Darcy?” he gasps, and he turns his head to stare at her. She lies sprawled on the ground, an arm covering her face from view.

“Oh God,” she whimpers. “I think I’m gonna puke.”

He flinches, and the men and women behind him seem to break out of their shock.

“Darce?” A woman cries- she wears jeans that seem too tight to be practical and a shirt that looks too big to be hers. “Are you okay?” She moves as though about to run over to them, but a hand on her shoulder by the huge blonde man beside her stops her in her tracks. He is watching Bucky with an intensity that is disconcerting, and he swallows uneasily, sitting back on his haunches. What fucking mess has he gotten himself into this time? And damn it all but he didn’t even need Steve’s idiot help to manage.

Took all the stupid with him indeed.

Darcy groans again, and Bucky glances back at her, concerned. She doesn’t look injured, but who’s to say beneath that huge bloody sweater of hers anyway. Darcy levers herself up into a sitting position, looking wrung out and tired. Her hair is even worse than before.

“I’m good. Thanks for the pickup.” Her gaze falls on Bucky and her eyes widen with horror.  She scrabbles back from him and he hates- _hates_ \- the look on her face, like he’s done something monstrous to her. “Oh fuck,” she breathes. “Oh no nonono! _What have you done_?”

He stares back at her, the reality of his situation bearing down on him and rendering him mute. He doesn’t half know himself.

“Well if the new guy is anything to go by,” a man drawls from their group of onlookers, “I’d say you’ve brought along a stow-away. What gives Lewis? I thought I made it very clear what I feel about groupies.”

Darcy’s eye’s narrow, and Bucky follows her line of sight to a middle-aged man standing behind a desk covered in technology far beyond anything Bucky has ever encountered before; of all the people in the room, he looks the least affected by this whole thing. He is startlingly familiar. “Stark?”

The man’s brows rise and he tilts his head, glancing between the two of them shrewdly. Now that Bucky can get a better look at him, he realises that it’s not Howard, though the resemblance is striking, as is the way his eyes widen fractionally in realisation.

The man who is not Howard lets out a low whistle. “Jesus,” he says, and he moves around the bench easily to draw closer to them. “I read Carter’s notes, but she never mentioned anything about _this_. The Boy Wonder, _really_?”

Bucky grits his teeth. One of these days, he’s going to shoot one of these science types if they keep speaking over him like he’s not there. On shaking limbs, he pushes himself up onto his feet, feeling overwrought and breathless, like he’s run ‘round the block two dozen times. “You know who I am?”

“Know who you are?” the man scoffs. “Buddy, _everyone_ knows who you are.”

“Actually,” says the tall blonde man, voice low and serious. “You are wrong, Stark. I for one, do not know the identity of this man.”

Bucky blinks. So he is a Stark- if he’s in 2013, then that must make him Howard’s son. Possibly his grandson. Stark makes an irritated sound, but the black man standing on the other side of the blond man beats him to the big reveal, his eyes wide, face awed.  

“What Stark’s _trying_ to say, big guy,” he says, gaze not straying from Bucky, “is our new visitor is none other than the best friend of the first Captain America, Bucky Barnes.”

 

[1] Bucky is in fact thinking of The Time Traveller, by HG Wells


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Introductions are made, explanations are given, and Bucky wonders if he can find a way to fit into this brave new world.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> IMPORTANT, PLEASE READ:  
> So there's been some speculation about the state about this universe, and how time relates to everything going on. I've been determined to avoid making this universe just a copy/paste of BNMN, which means that there will be elements of this story and the characters involved that will be wildly different from the BNMN 'verse and the DCU as a whole. Because of that, I've made few minor changes to the first chapter that were missed during editing, to better align it with the new storyline. Namely, Darcy doesn't recognise Steve as 'Steve' in this universe- rather, as 'Captain Rogers', the first Captain America. Hence, the text has been changed to this:
> 
> “Miss?” Bucky hears Steve ask. “Miss, are you alright?”
> 
> Bucky shoulders his way through the crowd of gathered men, taking in with surprise the sight of Steve crouching over a young woman. “Captain Rogers?” she slurs, bewilderment lacing her voice. She looks dazed and disorientated, like she’s hit her head on something. “Wht’re y’dwan ‘ere?” She squints up at him, even as her head lists to the side, and Steve cradles her cheek gently.
> 
> “Ma’am?” he asks again, but the woman is already gone, eyes slipping closed as her body falls slack. For one horrifying moment, Bucky thinks she might be dead, but he catches the slight rise of her chest and he breathes out a sigh of relief.  
> \--
> 
> FURTHERMORE, as will be specified in this chapter, time is something of a fixed entity, for the most part. Kind of like the Harry Potter time turners, and to a greater extent, Doctor Who, where minor changes can be made, but there are pivotal, fixed points in time that cannot be changed without the universe trying to correct itself. Therefore, Darcy's travel back in time was always meant to happen and she hasn't just completely re-written history :) Hope this clears a few things up.

_May 3rd 2013_

The blonde man frowns. “He was your predecessor?”

The black guy shrugs. “I mean, yeah? He was certainly the prototype.”

Bucky glares at him, affronted. “Are you calling _Steve_ a prototype?”

The man smiles at Bucky disarmingly. His eyes are kind, but Bucky is too irritated to be comforted by them. “There have been a few Captain America’s since your friend died,” he explains. “Though few have ever managed to be as influential as Captain Rogers.”

The floor seems to drop out from under Bucky’s feet. “Died?” he asks hoarsely.

The man’s mouth drops, eyes going wide. “Oh shit.”

The redheaded woman beside him elbows him sharply in the gut. “Nice going Wilson,” she growls. “Not even five minutes and you’ve already stuck your foot in it.”

Wilson covers his mouth. “Oh my God,” he gasps. “Holy cow I am so sorry! It just came out!”

“Steve’s dead,” Bucky says numbly. He breathes in slowly, and wishes there was something nearby he could collapse into. “How?” His ears ring strangely. “When?”

The redhead sends him a sympathetic smile and his stomach turns at the sight of it. God, what has he done? “March 1945,” she says. Bucky closes his eyes, chest constricting in pain. Less than a month- _fuck._

“How?” he asks again. It’s a marvel any sound comes out at all. He’d just been talking to the guy- how- _how could he be dead?_

“He flew a plane carrying armed nuclear warheads into the Arctic. He saved the world.”

“Of course he did,” Bucky hears himself say, voice hollow.

“They never recovered a body,” the redhead goes on. “I’m sorry.”

Bucky’s world feels blurry and indistinct. Steve dead. A soulmate who for all intents and purposes doesn’t want him, and he’s inadvertently gone and stuck himself in a brand new century. His stomach lurches.

“I think I’m going to be sick,” he says faintly, echoing Darcy’s previous statement.

A hand settles on his shoulder and Bucky flinches at the touch. Darcy makes a soft sound of dismay and pulls back her hand and he sends her a lost and helpless look. She bites her lip, staring at him with her big, sad eyes and his throat constricts.

“I’m so sorry,” she says, voice barely above a whisper. “This must be a lot to take in. You should sit.” She puts her hands on his shoulders and ushers him backwards into a rolling chair. Bucky lets her manoeuvre him obediently, gaze locked desperately on hers. Darcy presses her lips together unhappily, but the hand that brushes lightly over his hair is tender. He swallows thickly and stares down at his boots with blurred vision; his mother used to do the same thing when he was a boy, and he remembers with vivid clarity her tight and terrified embrace the day before he left for Europe.

She’s probably dead now. Becca too. Everyone he’s ever known must be gone by now, or near enough to.

“Fuck,” Bucky says softly, but with feeling. He wipes viciously at his eyes with the back of his hand.

What has he done?

“Can’t you send him back?” Darcy pleads, voice cutting through the tense silence. Bucky tries not to take it personally, but the ugly, vulnerable thing inside him can’t help but be hurt by her question. He is not _wanted_.

He looks away from his soulmate and swallows back the rising bile.

“It’s too risky,” Jane says, sounding apologetic. “We only just managed to convince Asgard to help us take you back. There’s no way they’ll lets us take him back, and I can’t replicate the incident that shifted you with any degree of accuracy. It was a miracle we even managed to find you in the first place.”

“But- Thor, can’t you speak to your father? Convince him?”

“I can try,” the big blonde guy rumbles. “But I fear Asgard will refuse. It is one thing to retrieve someone from the past- another thing to return them.” He sighs heavily, and Bucky’s nausea grows. “Time is… well as far as Asgard understands it, time is fixed, for the most part. Darcy, your appearance in 1945 was a fixed point in time; you were _meant_ to travel back… and unless you can find proof that he was still around _after_ we retrieved you, Asgard will likewise consider his disappearance another fixed point. They will refuse your pleas for aid.”

“Well that’s discomfiting,” Wilson says.

“It certainly has some serious implications for the concept of free will,” the redheaded woman notes, arms crossed as she leans against a desk. Bucky wonders how any of them can speak so lightly about this.

Sensing his devastation, Thor steps forwards to interrupt. “My friends,” he says, and his voice seems to reverberate through Bucky’s bones. “I believe Darcy’s new paramour may need some time to process this.”

Wilson watches him warily, but he nods and smiles at the two of them sympathetically. “We’ll be in the common room,” he says kindly.

“Uh- we will?” Stark Jr says. Wilson sends him a vicious glare.

“We sure are,” he says firmly. “Give them a little space, yeah?” To demonstrate, Wilson turns to leave, a hand cupping the redheaded woman’s elbow, and she sends him an indulgent look. Bucky is familiar with that look; Peggy used to give Steve the same one, when he was doing something a little too ham-handed. He doesn’t doubt for a second that the woman would likely destroy him without barely lifting a finger.

Stark grimaces. “You’re no fun.”

“Nope,” Wilson says lightly, already halfway out the door, another blonde man trailing after. Thor and Jane leave immediately after, and Stark huffs at the bespectacled man with the fluffy hair who as yet has said nothing.

“C’mon Tony,” he says with a sheepish smile. “Let’s leave them be.”

“ _Fine_ ,” Stark says, somewhat childishly. He points a finger at the two of them accusingly, “but Jarvis is watching. If he so much as _looks_ at you wrong Darce, sick him on the guy.”

Bucky’s eyes narrow dangerously, and Darcy looks unimpressed. “Fuck off Stark,” she snaps at him, irritated. He wonders who the hell Jarvis is, and how he could be watching them.

Stark laughs. “It’s good to have you back, Lewis,” he says lightly, and he flips her the bird as he leaves. Bucky is sorely tempted to storm off after him and teach him how to treat a lady right, before he remembers exactly how he treated her less than an hour ago… or should it be seventy years ago?

And suddenly, it’s just the two of them again, alone in a room full of technology he doesn’t recognise, in a century he doesn’t belong to.

He clenches his jaw and watches Darcy as she paces in front of him. He feels… helpless.

It’s a feeling he’s familiar with, but that doesn’t mean he likes it.

“This is bad,” she mutters beneath her breath, likely not realising she’s even speaking. “God, this is really bad.”

Irritation hits him like a punch in the gut. “I’m _right here_ , you know.”

Her pacing falters, and Darcy looks up at him with wide, startled eyes. “What?”

He sets his jaw and glares at his soulmate mulishly. “I’m right here. If you’re going to act like I’ve just ruined your life, you could at least do it somewhere I can’t hear you.”

“Ruined _my_ life?” she asks, mouth open in shock. “That’s not what I- Bucky, I _wanted_ a soulmate.”

“Then why did you leave?” He stares at her, an irrational, vicious anger growing despite his best efforts. She tried to _leave him_. Throw him away like a piece of trash. Like he meant nothing to her at all. “How- how could you _do_ that?”

“It was a split decision!” she snaps, eyes flashing at him dangerously in response to his ire. “What was I going to do, stick around?”

“Why not?”

“Why not?” Darcy hisses, and she draws in, close enough that Bucky can smell the remnants of perfume on her sweater. “ _Why not?_ How about because I was a fucking time traveller, terrified of a runaway butterfly effect? Or what about how all the history books say you died? You think I was going to stick around in a time sorely lacking in women’s rights, falling for a soulmate I knew was gonna die in the not-so-distant future?”

His eyes widen, the anger abruptly shifting to a low simmer. “I… die?”

Darcy throws her hands up and resumes her pacing. The anger returns full-force. “Well I don’t know anymore, do I? Maybe you weren’t really meant to- maybe they covered up your disappearance! But I certainly didn’t know the difference, and like hell was I going to deal with the heartbreak of loving and losing you in less than a fucking year!”

“So what, you thought it’d be just fine to leave?”

“If you think for a _second_ that I wouldn’t hate myself every living moment after I left, then you don’t know me at all, Bucky Barnes.”

“But that’s just the thing, doll.” he laughs bitterly, standing up from his chair abruptly. Darcy starts, but she doesn’t back away from him when he draws in close. “I _don’t_ know you.”

He watches as the wrath in her eyes dies away, fading into something sad and vulnerable. She sighs and looks away. “I ruined your life,” she says softly, and Bucky’s heart breaks all over again. Tentatively, he reaches out to brush a knuckle across her cheek. Her skin is soft and warm, and he feels a little thrill at the way she sucks in a sharp breath at stares up at him. She bites at the corner of her lip. “I’m so sorry,” she whispers, and he watches with faint horror as she starts crying again, the skin around her eyes going red and blotchy.

“Hey now,” he murmurs, and he cups her cheek gently, wiping at her tears ineffectually with a thumb. “Hey sweetheart, don’t cry.”

“Everyone you know is dead!” she sobs. Bucky clenches his jaw, unable to speak for fear of crying too. He draws her into a hug and Darcy’s arms wrap around him tightly. He rubs his cheek against her hair- it smells faintly of peaches.

“Shh,” he says, rocking the woman lightly. “Shh, it’s okay. It ain’t your fault.”

She sniffs, calming down. “It feels like it is,” she mumbles into his shoulder. Bucky forces out a chuckle.

“Nah doll. It was my own damn fault for chasing after you. Shoulda known better.” He swallows back the grief and takes in a steadying breath. If he’s going to be stuck here for the long haul, he may as well make the most of it. “Say… did we end up getting those flying cars Stark promised?”

Darcy laughs and pulls away, wiping at her eyes. Her skin is still red and blotchy, but Bucky can’t help but notice how beautiful she is all the same. “Not quite,” she says, sniffling. “We got a man on the moon though.”

Bucky’s mouth falls open in shock. “We _what?_ ”

She laughs again and offers him a weak smile. “1969. America beat Russia to the punchline.”

“The moon,” he echoes, eyes wide with wonder. “Heck. What else have we done?”

She snorts at him- the sound a little hysterical, but genuine. “Robots on Mars, heart transplants, the internet, the Civil Rights Movement, spray on skin.. lots of cool stuff.”

“Wow,” he says. “The future is _swell_. I can see why you wouldn’t have wanted to stick around in the forties.” Darcy flinches guiltily, and Bucky grimaces, pulling her into another hug. “Hey,” he says, trying not to focus on how warm and sweet she feels, the perfect height to rest her head in the crook of his shoulder. “Don’t go lookin’ like that- I didn’t mean it in a bad way- I’m just dumb is all.”

She laughs against his neck; a puff of hot air against his skin that makes it tingle pleasantly. “Sorry,” she says.

“No no- you shouldn’t be apologising sweetheart. I don’t blame you for any of this.” He pulls away and tucks a stray piece of hair behind her ear. “I should really be thankin’ you; one could argue you ended up saving my life.”

She screws up her face. It’s a cute look. “But what if they _were_ just saying you died to cover up your disappearance? Then you never really died in the first place.”

Bucky frowns thoughtfully. It makes sense- how were any of them to explain to the world how he simply ceased to be otherwise? “Time is strange,” he says definitively. Darcy laughs softly and looks away.

“It is,” she agrees. She sniffs again and wipes at the corner of her eyes with the cuff of her sweater before turning back with a weak smile. “Did you- ah- did you want to go meet everyone? I’m sure they’re dying to introduce themselves.”

Bucky is quiet for a moment. On the one hand, he’d really like to just stay in here and talk to Darcy. On the other, he’s got half a feeling if they stay in here too long, Darcy’s strange friends will barge right back in here, and he’d rather meet them properly on his own terms.  

He nods. “Lead the way.”

Darcy’s smile turns shy, and she reaches out to take his hand; Bucky’s heart skips a beat at the contact. her fingers are cool and soft, and her grip is firm as she leads him out of the room and down a short flight of stairs into a spacious shared living space filled with more glass than Bucky thinks he’s seen in his whole life. Her friends are littered throughout the large room, most slouched on various pieces of furniture, looking tense and uncomfortable. Their countenance doesn’t wholly change when Darcy and Bucky approach them, but it does seem to ease.

“Guys,” Darcy says, squeezing his hand tightly, “I’d like you to meet Bucky Barnes. My soulmate.”

There is a moment’s pause- a brief instant of tangible shock, before the room erupts into sound.

“ _What?_ ”

“-Bucky Barnes is your soulmate?”

“-damn Lewis you aim high-”

“No wonder you were so-”

“Guys!” Darcy says loudly, over the exclamations of her friends. They fall silent and she huffs in relief. She nudges Bucky in the shoulder and he sends her a fleeting smile. “As you can probably tell,” she carries on, voice carefully level, “this is kind of a weird time for us, and Bucky’s going to have to come to terms with- with a lot of things. So if you could all be on your best behaviour for the next… well, forever is preferable but I guess that’s too ambitious- maybe month?” Bucky holds back a grin at the way she runs off on a tangent and Darcy catches his eye and flushes in embarrassment. “Anyway,” she says, clearing her throat, “if you could all behave, it would be much appreciated.”

Stark’s eyes narrow. “Why do I feel like that request was aimed at me?”

The redhead, who seems content to lounge against Wilson on the couch like he’s just another piece furniture, rolls her eyes. “Maybe because of all of us, you’re the most likely to behave like a child?”

“I resent that statement- it was Foster’s machine that sent Darcy back anyway.”

“Yeah,” Jane says, glaring viciously at the man. “After _you_ tampered with it without telling anyone.”

“It was _your fault?_ ” Darcy asks, outraged. She lets go of Bucky’s hand to stalk over to Stark, picking up a cushion on the way. He backs away from her, hands raised up in supplication.

“Now Darcy,” he says nervously. “Let’s not be hasty.”

Darcy hits him with the cushion and he covers his face with his arms as she lets out a barrage of blows. “This is why. You don’t. Play with other people’s. Toys!” she growls, punctuating her words with a violent that Bucky can’t help but admire.

“Okay, okay!” Stark cries out, stumbling back from her. “Point taken! I promise I won’t play with Jane’s things again!”

“You’d. Better!”

“You have to admit though- this worked out pretty well for you!”

Darcy lets out an inarticulate scream and hits him with renewed vigour.

In all the violence, Wilson sidles up beside Bucky, snickering softly as Darcy chases Howard’s son around the room. “You’ll have your hands full with that one,” he says softly, clearly amused by their shenanigans.

He chuckles. On the other side of the room, Darcy sends him a cheeky grin mid-swing and his heart sings. “I’m starting to get that impression.”

Wilson holds out his hand. “Sam Wilson,” he says. His grip is firm, but not too much. “Captain America volume four.”

Bucky snorts and ruthlessly suppresses the pang of grief his statement evokes. He wonders what happened to the other two. “It’s nice to meet you.”

“Same to you. Since Darcy’s otherwise occupied, how about we get the introductions underway. This here is Bruce,” Sam points to the guy with the fluffy hair, who waves at them benignly, “and beside him is Clint- don’t let that guy near your pickles.”

“Wh- that was _one time!_ ” the stocky blonde guy beside Bruce protests. He has a plaster on his forehead, and his nose looks like it’s been broken one too many times.

“And I _told_ you I wasn’t going to let you forget it Barton! A man’s pickles are sacred! My ma made them!”

“Both of you are ridiculous wastes of space,” the redheaded woman says with a roll of her eyes. She stands up from the couch and joins them, a familiar economy to her movements. Her offered hand is warm and strong. “Natasha Romanov.”

“It’s a pleasure.”

“Likewise,” she purrs, and Bucky suddenly finds his arm being clasped by the big blonde- Thor.

“I am Thor,” the man rumbles. He towers over Bucky, easily twice his weight. “Son of Odin, prince of Asgard. And this is Jane,” the skinny woman steps forward and gives him a harried smile, “Doctor of the stars, and my lover.”

Jane rolls her eyes and elbows her ‘lover’ in the side; the guy doesn’t so much as flinch.

Bucky frowns; he remembers them saying something before about Asgard, and tries not to think about how he’s currently acquainted with royalty. “I’m not familiar with that place,” he says. “Where is it?”

Jane presses her lips together to hold back a smile, but Thor has no such compunctions and his head falls back with loud and hearty laughter. “Oh my friend, Asgard is not of this world. It is one of the nine realms, and keeps the peace throughout the galaxy.”

“… Right,” Bucky says, confused. Natasha takes pity on him.

“Thor is an alien,” she explains. Bucky’s jaw drops.

“Get outta town!” he gasps. Natasha looks smug and Thor laughs some more. Bucky doesn’t know if he’s laughing at him, or just the situation. He hopes they’re not just making fun of him. “For real?”

“For real,” Natasha confirms. “You’re taking this quite well.”

“I just travelled almost seventy years into the future,” Bucky deadpans. “And before that, I’d been fighting Nazi’s with weapons capable of disintegrating you on the spot. This really isn’t the hardest thing to come to terms with.”

“I suppose that’s true,” Sam muses. “We get so caught up thinking so much of the shit that happens to us these days is new, but I guess it’s been around for a lot longer.”

“Mm,” Bucky hums in agreement, though he doesn’t really know what he’s referring to. He thinks of Steve; how he changed from pipsqueak to powerhouse in a matter of moments.

Darcy returns, apparently satisfied with her assault on Stark, and sidles up beside Jane, wrapping a casual arm around her waist as the rest of the group joins them. “Speaking of,” she says lightly, “how did you even manage to locate me? I would have thought I’d be lost to history; it would have been a hell of a lot of time to trawl through to find me.”

“That would be thanks to Peggy Carter,” Sam says, a faraway look passing across his face. “Remarkable woman. She called Jane the day after you went missing- said she knew where you’d be.”

Darcy’s eyes widen in surprise, and Bucky can’t help the little flutter of joy in his chest to know Peggy’s still around and kicking. “Director Carter- _really_?”

“Yeah. She asked if I’d had a friend recently go walkabouts,” Jane says, frowning slightly. “I thought she was a prank caller at first. A really old prank caller.”

Darcy snorts. “Wow,” she says. “I wonder how she worked out who to contact.”

Jane grins at her. “That would be because you left them a souvenir.” Darcy frowns in confusion, and Jane runs off, up the stairs and into the room where Darcy and Bucky had appeared in. When she returns, she waves a flat piece of glass about in her hand. Darcy breathes in sharply.

“Is that my phone?” she exclaims, and Jane nods eagerly.

“You left it behind,” she explains. “Peggy stole it from Howard Stark before he could break it apart. Don’t ask me what she did to stop him from stealing it back though.”

Darcy takes the device- and how on God’s green Earth could anyone call _that_ a phone- from her friend’s hands reverently. “I forgot I even had it,” she says softly, turning the device over in her hands. The screen is more scratched than Bucky remembers, but otherwise it looks much the same. “Wow… this must be- shit, almost seventy years old now!”

“Yup,” Jane says proudly. “You are holding the oldest cell phone in the world in your hands.”

She laughs shakily. “Well when you say it like _that_.” She presses the button on the side and the screen lights up again, the picture of Darcy and Jane- Bucky recognises her in the photograph now- displayed on the screen. “Damn,” she breathes in awe, “It still works!”

“A miracle, I know,” Jane says. “Apparently she had someone at Shield break into it once time caught up to it. It’s how she knew how to call me.”

“She’s been a remarkable time keeper,” Natasha notes, no small amount of admiration in her voice. Darcy grins in agreement.

“This is amazing,” she says as she turns the device over in her hands. Bucky can’t help but agree. “How long’s it been, by the way?”

Jane grimaces. “Almost five weeks.”

Her eyebrows rise in surprise. “Wow.”

“Yeah,” Clint says, grinning. “You missed the season finale of Dog Cops.”

Darcy groans. “No!” She points a finger at him, eyes narrowed dangerously. “If you so much as _whisper_ spoilers at me Barton, I will end you. Don’t think I won’t.”

He mimes zipping his lips up. “I won’t,” he promises. “It’s good though.”

“Not a word!”

Bucky gets the impression he maybe doesn’t want to know what they’re talking about. He sighs heavily, conscious of his weary bones and aching muscles; he feels like he’s been pulled through a wringer; God only knows how Darcy is dealing with the fatigue, giving she travelled twice.

Sam must notice his exhaustion, because he claps him on the shoulder and offers him a sympathetic smile. “You must be tired,” he says and Bucky sends him a grateful look. “Darcy, why don’t you show him downstairs; there’s still a spare set of rooms beside Clint’s he can take.”

“Cool! Roommates!” Clint crows. Natasha elbows him in the side.

Bucky’s eyes widen. _Set of rooms?_ What kind of ritzy place has he found himself in?

“Um, excuse you,” Stark says, looking mildly affronted. “Whose tower is this again?”

Sam rolls his eyes. “Oh I’m sorry Tony; he could always stay with Darcy, if you want to be difficult.”

Stark’s eyes narrow, but he capitulates easily enough. Bucky wonders if he just puts on the front for show. “Fine,” he says. “But if he sets the tower on fire with the toaster, you’re paying.”

Just for that, Bucky’s half tempted to give it a try. He wonders if the future still uses good old fashioned water to put fires out, or if they’ve got something else to do the job for them.

Noting his thoughtful look, Darcy grins, and takes his elbow. “C’mon you,” she says, and Bucky tries not to show just how much he revels in her touch. “Let’s go find you some new quarters.”

Bucky smiles down at her and lets her lead him away from her friends, waving at them as they say goodbye. They walk over to a set of metal doors that open automatically into an elevator- though it’s far sleeker and shinier than anything he’s used to. The door close behind them automatically.

“So out of curiosity,” Bucky says lightly, eyeing the panel on the wall- the buttons reach up to ninety-three. “Where the hell are we?”

“Oh!” Darcy flushes lightly and smiles up at him ruefully. “We’re in Manhattan.”

“Manhattan?” he says, surprised. He can’t think of anything more removed than that, and with a pang, he thinks about how close he is to home. Is the block even there anymore? “Well damn.”

“Mm,” Darcy agrees. “We’re in Avengers Tower- formerly Stark Tower, before the- ah- Incident.”

“The incident?” Bucky can feel the elevator moving, but the thing is next to soundless, and before he can really register that they’ve moved, the doors are opening again into a wide corridor filled with large potted plants. Darcy steps out and he follows.

“Oh you know, the usual stuff. Sociopathic brothers bent on revenge, alien invasions, rampant destruction.”

Bucky stares at her, unsure if she’s telling the truth. “What.”

Darcy sobers, the cheeky look on her face fading into something more serious. “Thor’s brother Loki went crazy,” she explains. “He fucked with a lot of people’s heads, went on a killing spree, stole the tesseract and opened up a great big portal right above the Tower. Let a shitload of aliens in and they messed up the place real good before they managed to close the portal.”

“Goddamn,” Bucky says lowly.

“Yeah,” Darcy says darkly. “A lot of the place is still a mess.”

Bucky stares down the corridor: at the end of it is a large, floor-to-ceiling window. He wanders over to it and looks out at the Manhattan skyline. Darcy is right though; even from this high up- and they are _very_ high up- he can see the ruins of a skyscraper a few blocks away, long furrows gouged into the concrete. In the late afternoon light, its broken windows turn into a million gaping mouths. He tries not to think about what could have been big enough to cause that much damage

“Were you there?” he asks faintly.

“No,” Darcy murmurs, and something in Bucky’s chest loosens with relief. “Shield sent us to Norway to protect Jane; we didn’t realise it was to get us out of the country until we saw it all happening on TV.”

She scratches absently at her wrist, where Bucky’s words are wrapped around it like bloody bracelet. The cuff of her sweater is dirty, and without even thinking about it, Bucky reaches for her, fingers gently curling over the words. Darcy starts at the touch and looks up at him, wide eyed and breathtakingly beautiful.

He offers her a soft smile. “So,” he says. “We’re soulmates.”

Her lips curl, eyes sparkling. “So we are. What do you want to do about it?”

He huffs a laugh before turning serious. “I never thought I’d get a soulmate,” he confesses. Darcy’s eyes soften and he looks down at her wrist again, rubbing a thumb over the lightly raised words. “I always wanted one, but… when I got the draft… it made sense. Figured I’d die in the war… Was a bit of a relief, really. Spare her- whoever she might have been- spare her the heartache.”

Darcy rests her spare hand over his. “I didn’t think you wanted me.”

He flinches. “I was scared.” It feels terrifying and thrilling all at once to put his cards on the table like this. “You just turned up. I didn’t know why they’d appeared and I think I just wanted to rationalise it all: find a reason to protect myself when the inevitable happened.”

“I’m… sorry I tried to run,” Darcy says. He smiles at her helplessly.

“I’m sorry I was such an ass… I should have treated you with the respect you deserve.” Darcy’s hand falls away and Bucky runs his hand up her arm, cradling her elbow, his touch tentative. “Could we start again?”

She bites her lip and nods jerkily. “Yeah,” she says wetly. “I’d- ah- I’d like that.” She sniffles and Bucky feels guilty at almost making her cry. He takes a shuffling step closer; he can smell her faint perfume and peaches.

“I want-” he says hesitantly. He swallows, suddenly nervous. “I want to make this work- whatever ‘this’ ends up being. Darcy, I- I want to be there for you- in whatever capacity you’d have me in- lover, friend, stranger, enemy- I don’t care… except I do, I guess, because I’d really like to be your-”

“Oh shut up Bucky,” Darcy breathes, and for a moment Bucky is hurt by her words, but then she reaches up to curl her fingers around the back of his neck and tugs him down to press her lips against his.

The kiss is sudden, and awkward at first, their noses bumping forcefully against each other before Bucky realises what’s happening and he tilts his head so their mouths slot together perfectly. A hand settles on her waist; the other twists into her silky hair, gripping with just enough force that he can direct her how he wants.

Darcy makes a soft sound in the back of his throat and Bucky bites softly at her lower lip, crowding her backwards until her back hits the glass. She makes the sound again and arches her body against his, letting his tongue brush against hers- gently at first, then with growing intensity.

When they break apart, they’re breathing heavily, gripping at each other like the window behind Darcy might break and let them fall to their deaths. Bucky thinks he could let it happen and still die happy; his heart races and he laughs softly, giddy on her touch.

Darcy’s grin echoes his and he kisses her again just because he can.

“Not strangers then,” he breathes when they finally pull apart again. Darcy laughs and rolls her eyes at him.

“What do you think, you mook?”

“I think,” he murmurs, and he kisses the corner of her mouth, “that you,” his lips brush over the corner of her jaw and she gasps, “will make me,” the high point of her cheek twitches beneath his lips, “a very happy man.”

She squeezes his neck, gaze hooded and fond. “Let’s make this work.”

Bucky’s smile has never felt so hopeful.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> THANK-YOU SO MUCH to everyone who left a comment on the last chapter! I do hope to get around to replying to you all; it's one of my favourite things to do, really, and I'd have done it already, but at the moment I have limited internet available, and I can't afford to be doing things that mean the page is constantly reloading. So have a big hug and a thank-you from me; all of you are wonderful and amazing and I love y'all <3 <3 <3


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter messed me up to write.

_May 9th 2013_

There is a man in his living room.

It’s not the first thing Bucky notices when he stumbles from his bedroom at six in the morning, but it’s certainly the thing that sticks in his mind the most.

Bucky blinks at him, wary and confused. The guy is black, tall, with an inexpressive face, like he’s not used to smiling much. He wears a black leather trench coat and a black leather eyepatch and an expression that screams business. He holds one of the history textbooks Bucky had left on the coffee table the night before.

None of this explains what he’s doing here.

“Um- can I help you?”

The man watches him carefully, the look in his eye unreadable. There’s something cold and calculating about him, something that puts Bucky on edge, like he’s expecting him to meet some kind of expectations; good or bad, he doesn’t know.

“Sergeant Barnes?” the man asks, but the way he says it makes Bucky feel like he already knows the answer.

He swallows and nods at him cautiously. “That’s me.”

The corners of the man’s lips twitch, but Bucky doesn’t think it’s meant to be a smile. “My name is Nicholas Fury; I’m the director of Strategic Homeland Intervention, Enforcement and Logistics Division.” His lips twitch again, but he doesn’t offer Bucky his hand. “Better known to some as Shield. We’re an extra-governmental military agency, tasked with maintaining global security. We specialise in counter-terrorism and intelligence.”

“Okay,” Bucky says slowly. He understands maybe half of what Fury is saying. “But what does that have to do with me?”

Fury sets the history book down on the table and clasps his hands behind his back. Something about the way he speaks reminds Bucky of the nun’s from his old school- strict and no nonsense, with a harsh view on right and wrong. “You are a man who no longer exists, Sergeant Barnes. A ghost,” he says. “Shield would like to take advantage of that.”

Bucky frowns at him. “What do you mean?”

“Let me put it to you plainly,” Fury says. “You are a man with a particular skillset; in the forties, you were one of the best American snipers in Europe, and as I have come to understand it, nineteen fourty-five was only six days ago for you. You’ve battled with the extraordinary and won, Sergeant, and you have extensive experience in covert operations. Shield would very much like to capitalise on that talent.”

“Are you… looking to _hire_ me?”

Fury is unaffected by his incredulousness. “Shield sees your potential, soldier. You could be an invaluable asset to our cause.”

His eyes narrow. Something about the term ‘asset’ sends his hackles rising… like he’s not even a human entity anymore. Just another number, and he’s had enough that to last a lifetime. “Just what exactly _is_ your cause?”

“Protection of the human race.”

He scoffs. “Rather lofty goals, don’t you think?”

The corner of Fury’s mouth twitches again. His impassiveness reminds him of Natasha; always wearing a mask, all expressions made with a purpose in mind. “I’m sure you’re aware of the Avengers Initiative.” Bucky bites back a helpless smile- it’s rather hard _not_ to be aware of it when living in the tower with its name emblazoned on the side. “It was my idea- a group of extraordinary individuals able to protect humanity from inner or extra-terrestrial threats that ordinary forces can’t fight alone. The Avengers operate under the wing of Shield; Barton, Romanoff and Wilson are my agents- the best of the best. The rest are consultants; independent, but willing to step forward when the need arises. They’ve already battled against impossible odds and won, but there’s no guarantee that events like Manhattan won’t happen again. When they do, Shield would like to be ready.”

“What do you want from me, Director?”

“I’m offering you a place on the team, Sergeant. And a place within Shield, if you’re willing. You are a dead man- a ghost in the pages of history. That’s something that could be invaluable to us.”

Bucky swallows, feeling ill. The thought of… of returning to war sends a chill down his spine. “And if I don’t want to?”

“Then we’ll leave you be,” Fury says calmly. Bucky can’t tell if the man is disappointed in him or not. “We’re not here to force you into a fight you don’t believe in.”

His shoulders slump and Bucky feels a brief flicker of surprise, unaware of how much tension he’d been holding in. “I… I’ll think about it.”

“Shield is not your enemy.” Fury smirks. “In fact, we’ve a rather long relationship with Captain America and the Howling Commandos.”

“You said Wilson works for you?”

“He does.”

Bucky’s eyes narrow. “How many other Captain America’s have you had in your employ, Director Fury? And why did you choose to resurrect the title in the first place?”

The man just blinks at him. Bucky is reminded suddenly of a cat, contemplating its prey. “The Captain America legacy was not exclusive to your friend, Sergeant Barnes. Its power lies in its strength to rally the hearts and minds of the American people in times of great need… but the decision to ‘resurrect’ it- as you say- was long before my time. Reinstating the title with Agent Wilson was necessary during the Chitauri invasion, and… well… I’ve seen no need to take it back.”

Bucky nods. He doesn’t disagree with Fury- from what he’s seen, Sam’s a good guy, friendly and honest, willing to stand by his values, but lacking the bullheadedness that typified his best friend. But the thought of passing on the mantle hurts more than he’d like to admit- the truest confirmation to him that Steve is long gone.

“I’ll show myself out,” Fury says, apparently satisfied with their discussion. “But I would think very carefully about what kind of mark you want to leave on this world, Sergeant. This new century is not easy. It is not kind. A man like you would be wasted on a nine to five job.”

 _You don’t know me,_ Bucky thinks to himself. “As you said before, Director. Nineteen forty-five was six days ago for me. I think I’ll be the judge of what’s easy or kind.”

He smiles at him- the first proper smile Bucky’s seen so far, and even then it doesn’t quite reach his eyes. “As you say.” He pulls out a small piece of card and drops it on the kitchen counter. “When you make a decision,” he murmurs.

Bucky watches the man leave, offering him no goodbyes or platitudes. As soon as the door closes he breathes out a sigh of relief, stumbling over to the couch to collapse into it. That whole conversation had been… intense. And uncomfortable.

He wonders at it too. It’s almost been a week since he followed Darcy through that portal, and in that time, not once has he thought about putting his ‘talents’ to good use and picking up right where he left off. He knows this world isn’t as new and shiny as he might have hoped it to be- Darcy had disabused him of that notion quickly- but that doesn’t mean he’s interested in throwing himself back into the thick of it. Because he _doesn’t_. The heart of the matter is that he _doesn’t want to fight._ He didn’t want to fight back then- not when he was conscripted, and not when Steve asked him to- and he doesn’t want to fight now, either.

For the first time in years, Bucky is _free._ Free to do as he likes; free to woo his soulmate. Free to study. Free to travel wherever he wants, whenever he wants. Free to live a boring, uneventful life if that’s what he wants to do.

And part of him _hates_ how much he looks forward to that.

 

* * *

 

_May 10th 2013_

There is a man in his kitchen.

“This is going to be a theme, isn’t it?” he sighs in resignation, folding his arms.

“Whazzat?” Barton asks, looking over at him from his perch on Bucky’s kitchen counter. He cradles what looks like a pot of coffee in his hands; Bucky doesn’t think it came from his kitchen.

“What are you doing here, Barton?”

The man shrugs and takes a deep drink from the carafe. “Bored.”

Bucky glances over at the clock mounted on the wall. It has no numbers and he kind of hates it; it’s taken him all week to work out how to read it properly. “It’s ten past six. Don’t you have better things to do with your time? Like sleeping?”

“Don’t you?”

Well. He’s got him there. “How did you get in here?” After Fury’s impromptu visit, Bucky had increased the security protocols on his apartment. He’d _thought_ that would be enough to deter would-be burglars. Apparently not.

“Unimportant,” Barton shrugs again. He holds out the carafe. “Coffee?”

Bucky stares at him flatly. “No. Thanks.”

“Your loss.”

The room falls silent. Bucky decides the man is safe enough, and ventures into the kitchen, fetching a bowl and the cereal Darcy bought for him. It’s sweeter than he’d like, but Bucky doesn’t have the heart to tell her otherwise. Barton watches him pour it into his bowl with a faint smile.

“Didn’t figure you for a Captain Crunch man.”

Bucky shrugs. “It’s alright,” he says noncommittally. Barton hums.

 “So,” he says casually, watching as Bucky carefully pours milk over the cereal. Bucky regards him with a small level of suspicion- he gets the impression the guy attracts chaos like Darcy attracts sweaters. “I hear you used to be a sniper.”

“I was,” Bucky says warily. “What of it?”

“Oh- nothing,” Barton says lightly. Bucky isn’t fooled. “You ever use a bow?”

He snorts. “A bow? With arrows too?”

Barton looks at him, confused. “Well what else would you shoot with it?”

Bucky rolls his eyes. “I haven’t.”

“Cool… did you want to?”

Bucky falls quiet for a long moment. He gets the feeling this is something of an olive branch- an offer of friendship. He’s almost surprised; for the most part, the other residents of the Tower have left him alone, content with giving him his space whilst he comes to terms with his new place in the world. 

He smiles. “Yeah alright.”

 

* * *

 

“Director Fury spoke to me yesterday.”

Barton (‘call me Clint’) doesn’t look up from the target as he wrenches out his arrows. “I heard,” he says. “Sorry about that- Fury can be… a bit much. But he has good intentions.”

“He wanted me to work for Shield.”

Clint raises an eyebrow. “And not the Avengers? I’m surprised; I’d have though he’d jump at the chance to get a real life Commando on the team.”

“Oh, he offered that too.”

“And?”

“And what?”

Clint rolls his eyes. “Did you say yes?”

Bucky shifts where he stands, uncomfortable. Clint’s bow- a complicated mix of gears and string and smooth, polished surfaces- feels uncharacteristically heavy in his hand. “I said I’d think about it.”

Clint gives him a commiserating look. “Thought as much. It’s a bit much, isn’t it?”

He lifts his shoulder in an abortive shrug. “Kinda… I just- just got out of a warzone, you know? Not quite ready to throw myself straight back in.”

Clint studies him curiously, and Bucky gets the sense that he’s far smarter than he puts on. “No one would… think less of you if you chose to say no,” he says slowly, as though choosing his words with great care. “It’s not like it’s a decision anyone would take lightly… and- _well_ \- you don’t want to fight, do you?”

Bucky tries hard not to flinch, but doesn’t think he quite manages to succeed. His grip on the bow tightens. “No,” he says. “I don’t- I never-”

“Never wanted to fight?”

He shakes his head mutely. Clint huffs a sigh. He tucks his arrows back into his quiver and walks back to the firing point and Bucky follows.

“Are you aware of the specifics surrounding the Chitauri Invasion?” Bucky shakes his head again, and Clint’s smile is a hard and bitter thing. “I was… compromised. I was forced to do things I’m not proud of. And it- it fucked me up. A lot. Took me months to get my head screwed on straight when it was all over, but when it was, Fury came and offered me the same thing.” Bucky stays quiet, handing over the bow when Clint holds out his hand, and watches as the man notches an arrow. He breathes out slowly, aiming at the target and lets the arrow loose- it embeds itself in the dead centre of the bullseye. The corners of Clint’s lips twitch.

“I thought about it a lot,” he continues eventually. “At first I was reluctant- I’m one of the only baseline humans on the team, you know? And sure, there was Stark- but he has a mechanised flying suit; I’m just a guy with a bow and some trick arrows. What kind of place could I make for myself with that kind of calibre of people? What use could I be when there was an actual _god_ on the team?”

Bucky says nothing, and Clint shoots another arrow. It lands right next to the first, and the next one lands right beside it, each one equidistant apart. “And then there was the fact that I was still struggling to trust myself. Fury obviously trusted me enough to ask, but what if he was wrong? What if I’d regress and everything went to shit again? To be honest, I was fully prepared to turn him down and retire- God knows my- uh- my girlfriend’s been hoping I might for a while.”

Bucky raises an eyebrow, but doesn’t comment on the slip of information. He wonders who his ‘girlfriend’ is. “What made you change your mind?”

Clint shrugs. “Truthfully? Boredom. After being part of something so big- so _amazing_ \- how could I just go back to my old job? ‘Cause see, that’s the thing, Barnes,” he lowers his bow, looking straight at Bucky with his canny eyes, “I _wanted_ to fight. I’ve always wanted to. It’s what I’ve been- been wired to do, like an itch I can’t quite scratch. Once I realised that, it wasn’t hard to say yes.” He smiles again, self-depreciating but understanding. “We’re all like that- well, except maybe Bruce, but he’s always been something of an exception. But you know- it’s okay if you’re _not_ wired like that. The world takes all kinds of people.”

Bucky presses his lips together. He understands what Clint’s trying to say, but for all that he wants to say no to Fury’s offer, there’s still a large part of him that feels guilty for thinking so. What kind of man does that make him, that he doesn’t want to do the good- the _right_ thing?

“Steve was always getting us into trouble when we were kids. He’d get into fights all the time, fight like he wasn’t this skinny rake of a punk who’d bruise up if you so much as _looked_ at him, and I’d always be right behind him, pulling him outta hot water,” he says quietly, and Clint tilts his head as he listens. Bucky wonders why he’s even talking- he barely knows the guy. “Truth be told, my ma didn’t like him much- always thought he was a bad influence, but even then, I was nothing if not loyal.”

He smiles wryly- sadly. “When the war started, Steve wanted _so badly_ to join. He lied on his papers so many times I was terrified he was gonna get caught- and then they gave me the Draft, and I had to leave. Had to learn how to fight all over again, but I thought, maybe Steve’d’be safe.” He shakes his head, remembering how _big_ Steve had been after, the way he moved like he’d finally been given the body he was meant to have. His chest aches at the memory.

“‘Course, then he had to go and let some whacko scientist play guinea pig on him, and over to Europe he comes. I could have gone home after Azzano- I _wanted_ to go home, God. I wanted to get out of that fucking hellhole _so badly_ , but Steve- _Steve!_ He asked me to stay and I… well I couldn’t let the punk run off into the fray without backup, could I? He’d end up doing some idiot thing and get himself hurt and that’s- that’s _exactly_ what did happen, didn’t it?” He swallows back a sob, unable to look at Clint. “I- one split second decision- that’s all it took, and suddenly I’m _here_ , and Steve’s back _there_ and he’s- he’s-” His voice breaks and he cuts himself off before he can say anything else. He covers his eyes with a work-callused hand, eyes hot and prickling with unshed tears.

He jumps at the hand that lands hesitantly on his shoulder. Scrubs at his face with the back of his hand as Clint lightly squeezes, the weight of his hand comforting. “Sorry,” he grits out, sniffling. “You didn’t-”

“It’s alright man,” Clint says quietly. Bucky still can’t bring himself to look back at him, but… but he feels _lighter_ having said all of it. Like a weight’s been taken from his chest. “This it gotta be pretty hard for you, right?”

He nods, biting the inside of his cheek; the pain grounds him slightly. Brings him back to Earth. “I _like_ being here,” he confesses.

“So you feel guilty.” It’s more a statement than a question, but Bucky nods again all the same. “Don’t…” Clint’s voice is careful- cautious- like he’s treading on familiar, dangerous territory, “don’t you think he’d want you to do what makes you happy?”

Bucky is quiet for a long him. He… he hadn’t really thought of that.

“I guess,” he says. It’s true though. Steve- self-sacrificing idiot that he was- wouldn’t want Bucky to get caught up in should-have-beens.

Conversation now over, Clint wordlessly offers Bucky his bow and quiver, and he takes them, slinging the quiver over his head and shoulder.

“Thanks,” Bucky murmurs as he carefully nocks an arrow.

“It’s cool,” Clint says. Both of them know they’re not really talking about the bow and arrows.

 

* * *

 

_May 18th 2013_

Bucky shifts on his feet nervously. The sound of his hand knocking on the door seems almost deafening and belatedly he realises he could have just used the doorbell.

From the other side of the door, Bucky hears the heavy footsteps, as though someone is running, and suddenly the door swings open, revealing a grinning Darcy. He blinks at her in surprise for a long moment; she wears a modest white blouse, tucked into a navy skirt that flares out from the waist and ends just above her knees (far higher than he’s used to… not that he’s complaining). The skirt has little fish and anchors on it. With her lips a muted, dusky pink and her hair pulled back in a simple ponytail, she looks… cute. Bucky kind of loves it.

He also feels far less underdressed now.

(When had it stopped being proper to wear a suit and tie on a _date?_ )

“You’re early,” she says breathily, not appearing to be put out by it in the least.

“Only by a few minutes,” he rationalises. He smiles at and pulls from behind his back a bouquet and watches with pleasure as her face lights up. It’s a lovely, if simple, bouquet- a mix of faded orange dahlias, lambs ear and baby’s breath. Roses had been his first choice of course, but a few quiet words from Natasha when picking out his outfit had informed him that her favourites were dahlias, and judging from Darcy’s reverent expression as she takes the flowers from him, it had been the right choice.

“You bought me flowers,” she says softly, voice laced with surprise. She runs a hand over the delicate petals of one of the dahlias.

He smirks. “Of course I did.”

She laughs, flushing slightly, and without warning, steps forward to press a quick kiss to his lips. “Thank-you,” she murmurs, and Bucky lets her pull away with some difficulty. Darcy turns around, signalling for him to follow her inside. He does so, curious; he’s never been inside her rooms before, for all that he’s been here for almost two weeks now. Most of the last week has been a rush of paperwork and shopping, getting his life into order so he can become a functional citizen again.

Darcy busies herself by the kitchen, filling a vase with water straight from the tap and Bucky takes to opportunity to study her living arrangements. Its floorplan is similar to his, but the fittings are wildly different; where his is still largely filled with the same painfully modern furniture and strange, abstract paintings, Darcy’s home has old, well-used furniture, covered with handmade throw rugs, and the walls are dominated by framed photographs.  It’s eclectic and messy and he much prefers it to his own apartments, where everything is sparse and clean and _meaningless_.

“This used to be Jane and I’s,” Darcy explains as she preens over the bouquet, a slight smile curling at her lips. “Jane moved into Thor’s apartment a few months ago though, so since then it’s just been me. It’s a bit messy.” Her cheeks pink slightly in embarrassment as his gaze lingers on the papers and books left lying on the dining table. He shrugs.

“No- I like it. Someone lives here, you know? My place… it’s so empty. I don’t like it much, to be honest.” He grins. “The television is something else, though.”

“It’s pretty great, right? Have you tried Netflix yet?”

“I did… but there was so much to choose from. Kind of got overwhelmed.”

“You need to make a list,” Darcy says wisely. “Then you can write down all the things you need to catch up. You can cross it off as you go.”

“That’s a good idea,” he says thoughtfully. He could sort everything into categories too, so he knew what was most important.

“I have them sometimes,” she says cheekily, and winks at him. He laughs and watches as she picks her handbag up off the counter, apparently satisfied with the arrangement of her flowers. “We can pick up a notebook for you on the way to the park.”

He smiles. “Sounds good.” He offers her his arm and she takes it, her hand settling in the crook of his elbow. “Shall we?”

“We shall,” she says, nose pointed imperiously in the air. “Lead the way, Sergeant Barnes!”

He snickers all the way to the elevator.

 

* * *

 

“So tell me about yourself, Darcy Lewis,” Bucky says as they exit the newsagents, his newly purchased notebook and pens sitting comfortably in his pocket.

Darcy hums. At some point, her hand has migrated from his elbow to his hand, her skin cool and soft against his. “What do you want to know?”

“Everything,” he says truthfully. Darcy grimaces and he chuckles.

“That’s kind of a broad statement.”

“Then paint for me a broad picture.”

She huffs, and the crossing turns green, They walk quickly across the road, navigating the crowd of people walking in the opposite direction. “I’m twenty-six. Single child. My parents divorced when I was nine- it was messy- and I lived mostly with my dad, which was honestly fine by me because I was daddy’s little princess.” He snorts and she winks at him. “I grew up in Boston, but dad and I moved to Virginia after the divorce. In my spare time I used to help out dad at his garage, fixing cars and bikes and the like.”

Bucky’s brows rise in surprise. He tries to imagine the polished woman beside him covered in grease and dirt, but doesn’t quite manage it. He likes the idea of it though. Darcy carries on, oblivious to his musings. “Went to Culver after graduating. Bounced between degrees for a while before settling on political science- then in my last semester found out I was missing a few college credits so I applied for the internship with Jane.” She smiles ruefully. “I was the only applicant- didn’t know Jane and her theories were considered ‘loony’ until after my application had been accepted, and after I met the woman didn’t much care either. She was crazy smart, a little dotty and absent-minded- kind of reminded me of my mom, to be honest.”

They pass through the gates into central park, and Bucky wonders at how simultaneously different and similar everything is now; though there’s less statues[1] and hansoms, the grass is still that familiar green, the trees still tall and proud, filled with people happy to spend their lunch outdoors in the fresh air. He lets Darcy take the lead on their walk as he studies their surroundings with a detached curiosity.

“Thor turned up in the middle of my internship,” Darcy continues. Her voice is quieter than before, like the story is a secret meant only for him. _Maybe it is_ , he thinks. He smiles at the thought. “Banished for trying to incite war. Shit went crazy- Thor’s brother Loki turned out to be responsible for this whole conspiracy and sent down the Destroyer- this crazy killer fucking robot- to make sure Thor died. But then Thor got his powers back, and mew-mew, and-”

“Mew-mew?”

She flushes slightly. “His hammer,” she explains. “It’s what gives him his powers.”

“Ah,” Bucky hums. He’s seen the footage of Thor from the invasion. Most of it had been grainy and out of focus, but there was no mistaking the way he was _flying_ , nor the bolts of lightning he summoned. Bucky had thought that maybe it had just been his own latent abilities, channelled through the hammer; he was the god of _thunder,_ after all.

“To cut a long story short, Thor won, then he disappeared back to Asgard. Jane pined. Then the Incident happened, Loki can back and then Thor turned up, Shield packed us off to fucking _Norway_ , and by the time we managed to get back here, Thor was gone again. Then _London_ happened, and Thor came back, Loki died and we had to battle _space elves-_ ”

“ _What?_ ”

“You heard me,” she says, eyes glittering with mischief. “This is my life, dude. It’s weird. Like, _really_ weird.”

“But- _space elves?_ Seriously?”

“Yup,” she takes extra care to pop the ‘p’. “That was only like, five months ago, too.” She pulls a face. “Or I guess it’s been six months now.”[2]

“Wow.”

She snorts. “Tell me about it.”

“So what are you doing now?”

She smiles up at him. “Well after we came back from London and Stark hired us, I figured there was no use pretending that I was interested in Poli Sci anymore, so next semester I’m studying astrophysics- be of _actual_ use to Jane.”

His brows rise. “That’s impressive,” he says, and he means it too. He doesn’t quite understand _what_ astrophysics really entails, but he can’t imagine it’s easy.

She flushes again and kicks at a stone as they walk. “Well I mean- I’ve kind of already got a foot in the door, you know? And SI’s giving me a scholarship for it, _and_ I’m only doing it part time- don’t have enough time to work for Jane _and_ study.”

“Still- that’s really amazing. In the forties, you wouldn’t meet many women who’d be interested in studying that kind of thing.”

Darcy pulls a face. “Well, I’d imagine there weren’t very many opportunities _for_ women to study ‘that kind of thing’.”

Bucky frowns slightly at her defensive tone, but he doesn’t disagree with her. He’s already worked out how ‘backwards’ the forties is in comparison to the twenty-first century, though Darcy’s made no attempt to disguise its faults, too. “Didn’t mean anything by it,” he says quietly, and Darcy gives him an apologetic look.

“Sorry,” she says. “The feminist in me gets defensive.” She bites her lip and glances away. “I guess I keep on expecting you to say something terrible- remind me that you’re from a time where women were meant to be seen, not heard.”

Bucky’s lips twitch. “It’s alright,” he murmurs. He’s not offended- really, it’s only reasonable, from what he understands. “But I never really thought that.” He huffs a laugh and squeezes their joined hands. “I come from a long line of strong-willed Barnes women. If I ever so much as whispered that kind of tripe, ma would have had me over her knee in a heartbeat. And anyone who knew Peggy Carter would have been disabused of the notion pretty damn quick.”

She snorts. “I don’t doubt. Legend has it she was pretty fierce.”

He smiles, thinking of the way she’d decked more than one mouthy soldier since he’d known her. “She was something else,” he admits. “Steve was smitten.”

“Yeah?”

“Mm. Never could resist a feisty dame, that one. When we were kids he used to moon over Becca like you wouldn’t believe.”

Darcy’s face softens. “Becca… she was your sister, right?”

Bucky sobers, looking away as the skin around his eyes tightens. _Was_. “Yeah.”

“You must miss them.”

He nods unsteadily. “I- sometimes it feels like a piece of my soul’s been torn out.”

Darcy looks stricken, the guilt clear on her face. “I’m sorry,” she breathes, clutching at his arm like a lifeline. “I’m so sorry Bucky. If I’d just-”

“No, doll,” he says firmly. They stop walking, and he reaches with his free hand to cup her face, revelling in the way she turns into his touch, lips brushing lightly against his palm. “None of this is your fault. It was my decision to- to follow you through.” He smiles ruefully, and brushes his thumb across the fragile skin beneath her eyes. “Who knows what might have happened to me if you never turned up… And it’s not so bad here; at least I’m not alone. Least I got you.”

Tears gather in Darcy’s eyes and pulls away from him to wipe at them angrily. “Look at me,” she sniffles. “Tearing up like an idiot- _God,_ what a mess.”

Bucky smiles at her helplessly. He rubs his thumb over her knuckles, hand still clasped in his. “Everything ‘bout us is kind of mess,” he confesses and she laughs, watery but genuine.

“True. And here I was thinking everything would be smooth sailing once I found you.”

“Sorry to disappoint.”

She rolls her eyes at him and sniffs again. “You’re not a disappointment, Bucky.”

His heart swells at the admission and he grins, broad and happy despite the hole in his chest. He glances behind her, and his smile grows broader. “Speaking of disappointments,” he drawls. “Fancy a hotdog?”

Darcy laughs, startled by the rapid change in topic. “What?”

“You want a hotdog?” He tugs on her hand, leading her on to the cart he spies in the distance. “I wanna see if they’re as terrible as I remember them.”

She gasps in mock horror. “ _Bucky!_ A New Yorker, hating hotdogs? Are you _sure_ you grew up in Brooklyn?”

“Dead sure, sweetheart. Steve used to love ‘em, but I’m pretty sure it’s ‘cause he couldn’t taste anything half the time.”

They join the line for the cart- it’s several people deep, but the service is quick and before long a harried looking woman with bright blue hair, held back in a hairnet, is asking for their orders. Darcy asks for two hotdogs with onion and Bucky pays with cash, trying to quell his wince at the price of them. Darcy laughs at his face anyway as they stand off to the side to wait.

“Careful,” she teases. “You’re showing your age.”

“Three bucks for a _hotdog_! If they’d charged that much in 1945, there’d have been a riot! I’m telling you Darce, it’s _criminal!_ ”

“It’s inflation.”

“Yeah, well inflation can suck my-” he breaks off, flushing a bright red as he realises what he was about to say and Darcy laughs at him for real, head thrown back and shoulders shaking with mirth. Unable to stop himself, he grins.

“Oh my God,” she gasps, pushing at his shoulder joyfully, still giggling. “You are too precious.”

“Sorry,” he apologises, though judging from her reaction it’s not really necessary. “Still trying to remember I’m not in a warzone anymore.”

“I don’t mind,” she says, shaking her head even as a smile still tugs at her lips. “In case you haven’t noticed, I’ve got something of a potty mouth myself.”

He grins. He _had_ noticed that.

“Speaking of warzones, I heard tell from a little spider that a certain you-know-who gave you an offer for you-know-what.”

He flinches, his light-heartedness fading into something more serious. He opens his mouth to say something, but is interrupted by the server calling out their number, and the two of them take their hotdogs gratefully. A hotdog with onion these days apparently includes a grilled dog and caramelised onions. Bucky doesn’t think it justifies the pricetag, but he won’t deny that it smells far better than he remembers. He covers his with ketchup and grimaces at Darcy’s mix of ketchup and mustard. She laughs at his expression and pokes her tongue out at him, and he restrains the urge to bite it.

They wander down the path until Darcy spots a free bench, and she runs over to it before someone else can claim it. Bucky follows at a more sedate pace, and hands over her hotdog when he reaches her.

“Thanks,” she hums, and wastes no time in tearing into her meal. Bucky takes a bite of his own and smiles. The sweetness of the onions contrasts nicely with the tartness of the ketchup and the saltiness of the sausage- slightly crunchy from the grill- and the bread- though bland- is fresh and soft.

“Okay,” he admits. “This is a lot better than the ones from the thirties.”

“Ha!” Darcy crows. There’s a small dot of mustard on her nose, and Bucky chooses not to say anything. He takes another bite of his hotdog, chewing thoughtfully.

“I haven’t made a decision yet,” he says suddenly.

“Hmm?”

He stares down at the hotdog, contemplative. “I haven’t decided if I want to join the you-know-what.”

Darcy swallows the last of her mouthful. “Oh?” her voice seems guarded, and he wonders what she’s thinking. “Why not?”

“I… don’t know if I really want to join.”

Her eyes widen. “ _Really?_ ”

He shakes his head. “The fighting… it’s not really my thing.”

“Huh,” she remarks. She sounds surprised, and Bucky is relieved that there’s no hint of disappointment in her voice. “I would have thought for sure you would have joined.”

“Really?”

She smiles at him helplessly, hotdog sitting forgetting in her lap. “Well, I kind of grew up with stories about you; Captain America and his best friend, Bucky Barnes. Fighting for truth, justice and the American Way.”

He scoffs. “That‘s a bit optimistic… mostly the war was just us trying to survive. And eradicate Hydra, I suppose.”

“I can imagine,” she says dryly.

“You’re not… angry?”

“Ha!” she laughs. “Of course not! It’s a relief, to be honest. Don’t get me wrong- I love the team to bits. But they’re insane, and their job is… well it’s hardly safe, is it? And the thought of you leaving and not coming home one day…” her expression turns pained, and something in Bucky’s chest aches. “It’s not really a possibility I want to have to contemplate.”

He smiles weakly.

Darcy’s gaze returns to her lap and her fingers play with the wrapper of her hot dog. “Whatever you choose… you know I’ll be there for you, right? If you decide you want to fight, or retire-” she grimaces at the word; Bucky doesn’t blame her- it sounds ridiculous, “I’ll support you. In whatever capacity you want me in.”

He reaches out to hold her hand. “Thanks.”

Her expression turns pensive. “So if you don’t join _\- you know_ \- then what do you reckon you’ll do with yourself?”

“I don’t know yet,” he says with a shrug. “I like the idea of going back to school, though. Study… I don’t know… maybe art or engineering or- or- what? What’s wrong?” Darcy is staring at him, her gaze intense. He swallows, suddenly nervous, and wipes at his face self-consciously. “Do I have something on my face?”

“Shut up, Bucky.”

“Wha-” he says, but Darcy’s arm shoots out, clutching at the front of his shirt and pulling him forward to slot her mouth over his again. The tension in his shoulders eases, and he rests a hand on the back of her neck, relishing the way she shivers beneath his touch. Her tongue brushes over his upper lip and he opens his mouth, letting Darcy take control of the kiss. She tastes faintly of the mustard from her hotdog and laughter bubbles up from his chest.

She pulls away, an elegant brow raised at him. “What?”

“This gonna be a habit, doll? You tell me to shut up, and then kiss me?”

She smirks. “Well you’ve got such a mouth on you- how else am I gonna manage?”

“Guess you’ll have to work to find out,” he chuckles again and pulls away, taking another bite of his cooling hotdog. “By the way- you’ve got mustard on your nose.”

Darcy makes a high-pitched sound of alarm and rubs furiously at her nose. He snorts, and hopes all interactions with the woman will feel this easy.

 

* * *

 

_June 24th 2013_

“It’ll be fine, Bucky,” Darcy reassures him as they walk hand in hand across an immaculate lawn, fringed with marigolds and sunflowers (or rather, several other flowers too, but they’re the only ones Bucky can recognise). The grass is soft and springy beneath his feet, and Bucky feels like a naughty child, glancing around nervously as he waits for someone to yell at them for walking on it.

They stop in front of the green painted door- pristine paint and a shiny brass knocker and letter slot- and exchange a glance between each other. Darcy reaches out to rap on the door with the knocker and squeezes his hand as he shifts on his feet nervously. “She knows we’re coming.”

“Yeah, but you know what Sharon said,” he hisses. “What if she doesn’t recognise me? Or- or-”

“She’ll recognise you,” she murmurs. “She said she was quite lucid today, and anyway, who could forget a face like yours?”

He snickers. “Charmer.”

The door opens, cutting off the rest of their conversation, and a woman looks over them carefully, gaze lingering on their joined hands. The way she holds herself- tall and proud, poised and refined- reminds him so much of Peggy his heart aches.

“Uh- Sharon?” he asks. The woman’s face breaks into a smile.

“Bucky, Darcy! It’s good to finally meet you!” She takes each of their hands, shaking them vigorously. “Aunty Peggy’s been so excited to see you!”

Darcy grins and holds up a plastic bag- inside is a white box made of thin, flimsy cardboard that Bucky puts zero trust in. “We brought cake!”

Sharon laughs and ushers them both in. Bucky notes that she has a slight limp.  “Fantastic; the more cake, the merrier.”

Inside is neat but homey, the floorplan carefully laid out for ease of access. They remove their shoes in the foyer, and Darcy lines both pairs up neatly with her foot, poking her tongue out at him when he rolls his eyes.

“She’s just through there,” Sharon says, and she holds her hand out. “I’ll take the cake, if you’d like.”

“Thank you.”

Sharon wanders down the short corridor with their offering, disappearing into a room that he imagines must be the kitchen. Darcy- still holding his hand- takes him through into the living room, where an old, but familiar face resides.

He watches as Peggy Carter recognises him, her face lighting up with unbridled joy, and he can’t help but answer her glowing smile, though his mind reels at the stark differences between the woman he knew, and the woman in front of him, her face careworn and _frail_ , her hair a shocking grey. God- it was only six weeks ago that he watched her take down a man twice her size without so much as knocking a hair out of place, but now he fears a stiff wind might blow her over.

“Bucky Barnes,” Peggy says in a tremulous, raspy voice. “In the flesh. Some days I thought I’d never be around long enough to see you again!”

“Peggy,” he says, and it feels a little bit like coming home, and losing it all at once. “You’ve gotten old.”

Her eyes narrow, lips twisting into a familiar smirk. “Cheeky,” she growls, and she holds out her arms, unable to move to him with ease in her wheelchair. “Now come here so I can pinch your cheeks.”

He laughs- though it feels more like a sob- and rushes over to her, falling to his knees so he can hug her properly.  “Pegs,” he sobs against her chest, holding her as tight as he dares and Peggy shushes him, just like his ma used to, and runs a hand over his head comfortingly. Distantly, he hears Darcy exit the room, and Bucky’s grateful- he doesn’t want her to see him like this, sobbing like a child into the arms of his only alive friend, seventy years too old and far too motherly.

“Shh, dear boy. Shh, it’s alright,” Peggy soothes, and he wonders at himself, really, because it’s not as though the two of them had ever been terribly close, but maybe absence makes the heart grow fonder, just like they say. “Shh, there now- and here I thought Steve was the dramatic one.”

He laughs wetly and pulls away from her, scrubbing at his eyes with the cuff of his sleeve. Peggy tuts and hands him a handkerchief, retrieved from who knows where. “Sorry,” he murmurs, and Peggy tuts again, reaching out to touch his face almost reverently.

“So young,” she says softly, tilting his face both ways to study him. “God- you look so young! I almost can’t believe I was ever that youthful.” Her eyes spark with mischief, and she suddenly pinches his cheek.

“Ow! Pegs cut it out!” He yelps, startled and she laughs at him and lets go.

“Oh Bucky it is so good to see you again. It’s been so long!”

He bows his head, but he’s smiling now. He feels… lighter. Peaceful. “It’s good to see you too, Peggy. I- for a while there I felt like I was alone.”

She smiles at him in sympathy, and pats at the armchair beside her. “Don’t be silly, darling. How can you be alone when you have such lovely friends?”

He stands and sits down beside her; the chair is springy and soft. Sharon chooses that moment to come through to join them, carrying a large silver tray laden with a teapot and delicate china teacups. Darcy is right behind her, and she winks at the pair of them as she sets down her tray of cake and cookies.

“It’s wonderful to see you again, Director Carter,” Darcy says, bending down to kiss Peggy on the cheek.

“And in far happier circumstances no less, Miss Lewis” Peggy agrees, watching Darcy with blatant approval.

“Darcy, please. Thank-you for returning my phone, by the way. And your help when my friends were looking for me was invaluable.”

“Then you must call me Peggy,” she orders. Darcy smiles, pleased with herself, and Peggy watches with a shrewd eye as Sharon pours them each a cup of tea, and takes her own from her niece gratefully. “Thank you darling,” she says, lifting the delicate china up to her nose to breathe in the aroma. “For an American you do make some lovely tea.”

Sharon rolls her eyes, but a slight smile tugs at her lips. “Thank you Aunty.”

Peggy winks at him, and Bucky gets the impression she likes to play the dotty old woman quite a bit. “So tell me Bucky, how are you liking the twenty-first century?”

He shrugs. “It’s alright. Space travel is pretty swell. And the internet is wonderful.” He shares a mischievous look with Darcy as Peggy chuckles and Sharon bites back a smile. “The company’s not bad, I guess.”

Darcy pokes her tongue out at him.

“I hear you’re staying in Tony’s tower? How do you like the team? Fury was very pleased with himself when they all stuck together.”

He nods. “I like them. Clint and Sam especially, but they all seem like good people.”

“I heard that Fury asked you to join.”

He sighs. Darcy laughs softly into her cup. “Does everyone know about his visit? It was five weeks ago!”

“No, darling, just the people that matter. But your reticence speaks for itself, doesn’t it?”

He smiles at her ruefully, leaning forward to rest his elbows on his knees. “I’m thinking of turning him down, if I’m honest.”

“Good.”

Bucky looks up, shocked. “What?”

Peggy watches him with canny eyes. “You heard me. Good. Looking at you now… oh Bucky you’re so _young_. There’s so much you could do with yourself- don’t go chasing after an ideal you don’t believe in.”

He swallows, eyes burning. His voice, when it comes out, is thick and wavering. “I don’t want to fight anymore Pegs.”

She reaches out and takes his hand, her grip firm despite her frailty. “Then don’t. There are too many soldiers in this world, Bucky. And you paid your dues- we all did- during that damn war. Do what makes you happy.”

He bites his lip. Smiles at her. “I was thinking of going to college. Study architecture.”

Peggy breaks into a wide, happy smile. “Oh, that’s a wonderful idea!”

He chuckles, pleased that she’s pleased. And maybe a little relieved too; no small part of him had feared that she would be disappointed in him for refusing to join Shield or the Avengers. “Fortunately, it turns out I’ve got more than enough backpay to cover expenses.” He shakes his head in disgust. “Can you _believe_ how expensive it is to go to college Peggy?”

Peggy groans in sympathy, and the pair of them ignore the long-suffering looks that Sharon and Darcy share. “Everything is so expensive these days! I remember when a paper cost a penny! Now you’d be lucky to buy one for less than a pound!”

“Sometimes I spend over a hundred bucks on groceries! A hundred bucks!”

“Criminal,” Peggy sighs. Darcy coughs to hide her laugh, but Bucky’s just grateful to have someone who understands his grievances. Most people just let him talk indulgently.

“Of course,” Peggy says, and there’s a glint in her eye that speaks of mischief, “it’s not all bad these days, is it?” Her gaze lingers pointedly on Darcy, and Bucky flushes, reaching out to take his girlfriend’s hand.

“Uh- yeah,” he murmurs, watching as something pained crosses her face. “We’re soulmates.”

She smiles at the two of them, and Bucky wonders if she’s thinking about Steve; neither had been marked, but it’d been obvious to everyone how much they meant to each other. Steve kept a picture of her in his compass, for fuckssake.

“Steve would have been so happy for you,” she sighs. Bucky smiles, a little bitter. He never ended up telling Steve that Darcy was his soulmate.

“What- what did he do? After I’d… gone?”

“Oh he was furious,” Peggy says lightly, staring down into her teacup. Bucky breathes out shakily; her words couldn’t be more effective than if she’d hit him with a sledgehammer. “And devastated. He thought Hydra had taken you again… but I think instinctively, he knew that wasn’t what had happened. When we captured Zola, I thought for sure he was going to tear the man apart when he said he didn’t know where you were- it took quite a bit to talk him down. And in the Valkyrie… he made me promise- promise to find you-” her voice breaks with distress, and her teacup rattles alarmingly. Sharon rushes over to her, taking the china from her fragile hands and clasping them in her own.

“It’s okay, Aunty Peggy,” she murmurs. “You found him- just like you promised.”

Bucky watches, frozen, as Peggy’s distress clears, replaced instead with mild confusion. “Found who, darling?”

His heart seems to stop in his chest and Darcy squeezes his hand hard enough that his bones grind together. He clears his throat, and Peggy’s head snaps over to him. Her eyes widen with surprise and joy, and his heart breaks all over again.

“Bucky Barnes! Oh how good it is to finally see you again!”

 _It’s fine,_ he thinks. He knew this might happen. _It’s. Fine._

Doesn’t make it hurt any less though, and he reaches out to take her extended hand, her skin thin and warm against his. His eyes burn, gaze blurring, and Sharon sends him a look of sympathy from where she kneels beside her aunt. “Hey Pegs. It’s good to see you too.”

She frowns at him in concern. “Bucky- why are you crying?”

“Ah-” he laughs mirthlessly, and tugs his other hand from Darcy to wipe at his eyes with the cuff of his sleeve, before remembering the handkerchief still sitting in his lap. “Sorry- I’m just so happy to see you, ‘s’all. You’re looking well.”

She smiles warmly. “I look old.”

He bites his lip, wishing he could just run away and never look back. “Not a day over seventy-five, honest.”

She chuckles. “Cheeky. If you were closer I’d pinch your cheeks, young man.”

He bites the inside of his cheek; pain radiating through his jaw but he doesn’t draw blood. “All the more reason to keep away,” he teases, but his heart isn’t in it anymore.

“Bucky and Darcy just popped in to say hello,” Sharon tells her aunt softly, and Peggy sighs, looking disappointed. Bucky’s grateful; he’s at a loss for what to do.

“Oh- that’s a shame,” Peggy sighs. He wonders if she’ll ever remember the rest of their conversation. “Are you here for long?”

“Just the week,” Darcy says. “But I’m sure we’ll be back before long.”

Peggy smiles in relief. “How lovely.”

Abruptly, Bucky stands. “Excuse me,” he says tightly. “I have to- I’ve got to-”

Darcy smiles up at him with understanding. “Go to the bathroom?”

He nods tightly and leaves as quickly as can be considered polite, storming out the front door just as he hears Peggy say “Oh dear, I did it again, didn’t I?” The door closes behind him quietly, and he stumbles across the grass, collapsing an old bench seat he’d seen when they were walking in. The varnish is cracked and peeling in places but he doesn’t care, and he curls forward, head cradled in his hands as he cries again, silent, gasping sobs, ignorant to the relative openness of his retreat.

God he- he can’t believe how much he’d _hoped_ for this to all turn out okay. He misses his friends. Misses _Steve_. He’d been looking forward to seeing Peggy for _weeks_ , ever since he’d known that he could, and despite being warned about her Alzheimer’s, and learning what that entails, he never really thought about the reality of their meeting. He’d just been glad to find a piece of his past again. And now… his gut churns unpleasantly, because he can’t even have _that_.

Darcy comes out after a time, once his emotions have settled, and she sits down beside him, making no move to start a conversation.

His fingers itch desperately for a cigarette.

“I knew it was too good to be true,” he says after a time, staring down at socks. The chill of the concrete creeps through the thin fabric and into his bones; a sharp contrast to the warm sunlight that glares down on the back of his neck. “I _knew_ it was too good to be true- that I’d have a friend back.”

Darcy breathes out slowly, fingers toying with the hem of her sundress. “I’m sorry,” she says quietly. “Sorry this didn’t turn out like it should have.”

He sighs. “It’s… fine.”

“No, it isn’t.”

“No- it’s not. It’s not fine. But it’s life… guess I’ll just have to get used to that.”

She smiles at him weakly, and he reaches out to take her hand, lifting it to his lips and placing a gentle kiss to the inside of her wrist. He feels her shiver at the touch and he smiles against his words, remembering exactly why this world can still be better than what he once had.

“I’m gonna turn him down, Darce. Gonna tell him to shove it.”

Darcy laughs breathily, but she looks relieved. Grateful. “Make sure I can watch- I hear Fury’s a real terror.”

He lets their hands fall down to the space between their bodies. “I don’t wanna fight anymore. I just want to be me.”

Darcy’s eyes crinkle as she smiles at him, her eyes as blue as the sky stretched out above them, and his head constricts at the sight of her. He smiles back despite himself.

“I look forward to it.”

 

 

 

 

 

[1] For an amusing article complaining about the ‘artworks’ in Central Park in 1939, check out this link: http://archives.chicagotribune.com/1939/03/21/page/10/article/wpa-does-its-bit-to-make-central-park-a-hodgepodge

[2] Having Thor 2  events happen November 2012

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> … now before you say anything… I DID warn you that there’d still be angst in this fic. And honestly if you expected better… it’s like you guys don’t know me at all *dances away*
> 
> [This week in “What’s new in Cinna’s internet history”: cost of hotdogs America 1939]  
>  
> 
> So my choice in architecture is based on Bucky’s art background. It’s canon that Steve and Bucky were in an art class when they heard about America joining WWII on the radio, but it’s never specified what Bucky’s artistic background specialises in. So I’m gonna say that it was buildings and technical drawings; hence, architecture. ^.^
> 
>    
> Also, my HC in this ‘verse is that Sharon had an injury semi-recently and is still recovering from it- so she started taking care of her aunt, because she can’t just sit around and do nothing. This is in part because I love Sharon, and Peggy, and I simply cannot believe that Peggy would end up alone stuck in some nursing home.


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A huge thanks to [blooming-softly](http://archiveofourown.org/users/bloomingsoftly/pseuds/blooming-softly), [Reallife/Chewingonpearls](http://archiveofourown.org/users/Reallife/pseuds/chewingonpearls) and [CatrinaSL](http://archiveofourown.org/users/CatrinaSL/pseuds/CatrinaSL) for going over this chapter for me! You're all legends to me! <3 <3 All three are wonderful writers- I strongly suggest you go and check them out! :D
> 
> WARNINGS PLEASE READ: THERE IS CANON-TYPICAL (read: CA:TWS) VIOLENCE IN THIS CHAPTER. BE WARNED. 
> 
> Also, take note; I've gone through all the previous chapters and have added dates where relevant; they'll be included in the chapters for your reference from here on out. 
> 
> I dedicate the first half of this chapter to all of the excruciatingly awkward and stilted conversations I’ve had during the first weeks of the semester ':|

_July 21 st 2013_

 “So Natasha tells me you haven’t gone to see Murawczak for two weeks now.”

Bucky looks up from his book, glaring. “She did, did she?”

Darcy nods slowly from her perch on the kitchen counter. She nurses an empty bowl of brownie batter between her legs, and the silicone scraper she’d been using to clean it sits in her hand, temporarily forgotten. “She was concerned.”

Bucky scowls and looks away, desperately trying to use his anger to hide his guilt. “She has no place- no business poking her nose into that.”

Darcy nods, conceding his point, but Bucky knows she’s not going to just let the topic go. “You know she likes to keep tabs on everyone. And I _know_ that doesn’t make it right-” she adds sternly, before he can say something scathing in response. Bucky’s mouth closes with an audible _click_. “But it’s her… well, Sam says it’s her coping mechanism.” His grip on his book tightens at the reminder that he’s not the only one to have learnt at the school of hard knocks. “She means well.”

“Can’t she ‘mean well’ at someone else? It’s none of her business what I do with my time.”

“You know it doesn’t work that way,” Darcy says, voice tinged with sadness. “And at any rate- it’s _my_ business. You’re my soulmate, Buck- I care deeply for you- and I’m _worried_ about you.”

He keeps quiet, knowing it comes across as a sign of guilt but unable to think of any appropriate response. Darcy sighs and hops down from the counter, joining him on the couch. She plucks his book from his hands and slips the bookmark into place before resting it on the floor and huddling a little closer to him.

“Why aren’t you seeing Murawczak anymore?”

He clenches his jaw, still not quite able to look her in the eyes. “I don’t know… I don’t… I didn’t need her anymore.”

“Bucky-”

“I didn’t! I’m _fine_ \- I don’t need a shrink to go crawling through my head to tell me that.”

“You know you’re allowed to not be okay-”

“I’m _fine_ , Darcy. Really. I don’t have shell shock, or whatever you call it these days.”

“Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder.”

“I’m not crazy-”

“Hey, PTSD _does not_ equal crazy- you _know_ that!”

He huffs a sigh. “Right. But I’m fine- I don’t need Murawczak.”

“Really?” she asks, disbelief lacing her voice. “Don’t think I don’t know about the nightmares. And ever since we saw Peggy, you get angry- at the drop of a hat sometimes.”

He flinches. “It’s not that bad-”

“Bucky, just last week you punched through the drywall in your bedroom. And you don’t come up to the common rooms nearly as much as you used to- you’ve been isolating yourself.”

He breathes out slowly, fighting the wash of shame at the reminder. He’d woken from another dream of Zola and his needles and the suffocating press of restraints around his arms and chest, and when he’d woken, covered in a cold sweat and the feeling of hands wrapped around his throat, he’d punched the wall. The damage to his hands had healed by the end of the day- much to his growing horror- and it had taken him two days to finally cave in and ask Jarvis if he could get someone in to fix the wall. He’d hoped Darcy wouldn’t find out… but evidently she did anyway.

“I just want what’s best for you, Bucky,” Darcy says softly. “And you’re not okay- and that’s _alright_. No one’s going to think less of you for needing some help along the way. I wasn’t okay after Puente Antiguo- or Greenwich. I needed one too.”

“Yeah, but you’re a-”

“A woman?” Darcy cuts him off, voice sharp. He flinches guiltily.

“That’s not what I meant.”

“Are you sure about that? Because what it sounded like to me was that you think it’s okay for women to get help, but not men. Do we need to talk about toxic masculinity again?”

Bucky stares down at his hands- there’s not even a hint of scarring on his knuckles, and its absence unnerves him. “No- you’re right- I’m sorry. I’m- I’m trying, I swear.”

Darcy’s hand lays over his, the words on her wrist as bloody a red as ever, and something about the colour turns his stomach. He grits his teeth. “It’s okay,” she says softly. “I know you’re trying- and you’ve been doing great. But you really should go back to seeing Murawczak. Thing’s aren’t okay- and they’re not just going to get themselves fixed on their own.”

“I know that,” he snaps, irritation rising at her cautious voice, like he’s some kind of wild animal. Darcy doesn’t so much as blink at his sharp tone.

“Please Bucky,” she says. “Please go back to seeing Doctor Murawczak.”

He breathes out heavily and closes his eyes, focusing on the pulse ringing in his ears and the warmth of Darcy’s hand on his as he reigns in his temper. He sees the wisdom in her words, and knows that she’s right; things _haven’t_ been okay. He’s struggled to find the motivation to socialise with the rest of the Tower for weeks, and his nightmares have only been growing worse since he saw Peggy: not to mention his sudden drop in motivation towards going back to school.

“Okay. I’ll see her again,” he says eventually. Darcy breathes out an audible sigh of relief.

“Thank-you,” she says emphatically, squeezing his hand tightly. “I _know_ it’s hard to admit there’s a problem, but _thank-you_.”

“I’m sorry.”

“Hey,” Darcy murmurs, reaching up to grip his chin lightly and tilt his head towards her. She smiles at him warmly. “You don’t have to apologise- it’s alright.”

He smiles back weakly. “I’ll see her tomorrow, I promise.”

“That’s all I ask for,” she says quietly, and she tugs him forward by his chin to kiss him.

Bucky tries not to think of it as a reward.

 

* * *

 

_January 21 st 2014_

Bucky’s first day at college is nerve wracking, exciting, and disappointing all at once.

His hands won’t stop moving; clutching at the shoulder strap of his backpack, worrying at the cuffs of his jacket (leather and ill-fitting and patched and wholly different from everything he was once used to) and fiddling with a ball point pen as he waits outside the lecture hall. He’s early; his first class doesn’t start for at least another twenty minutes, and from the glass doors he can see the crowd of students from the lecture before his watching attentively. He’s not the only one here early though, and he spies more than a few students trying desperately to look like they haven’t turned up with half an hour to spare. He sympathises; it’s taken him months to master the art of looking casual in the twenty-first century, and _even then_ , he’s still not sure if he gets it right.

In the pocket of his too-tight jeans- Natasha’s choice- his phone vibrates, and he fishes it out, smiling at the name that lights up on the screen. He swipes a finger over the fingerprint sensor and unlocks it, flicking through with practiced ease to open Darcy’s Facebook message.

D-dog Lewis: _Stop fretting i can hear u from hear_

Bucky bites his lip to hold back his smile, glancing up surreptitiously as though guilty that strangers may have seen it.

Bucky Barnes:  _Can’t help it everyone. Is so young_

The little ‘…’ pops up as Darcy types back a reply, and his phone _pings_ obnoxiously when it sends. Alarmed, Bucky puts it on silent before he inevitably forgets in the middle of class.

D-dog Lewis: _its cause your really old_

Bucky Barnes: _I AM SO OLD. HAVE THEY EVEN FINISHED SCHOOL YET_

D-Dog Lewis: _lolololol :D ;D wee babbies_

Bucky Barnes: _DO THEY EVEN KNOW HOW TO DRIVE????_

D-Dog Lewis: _Probably better then u old man_

“Girlfriend?”

Bucky looks up, startled, and blinks at the young Asian man standing beside him. His thick framed glasses, waistcoat and colourful tattoos poking out from beneath the rolled sleeves of his shirt marks him out as what Darcy derisively calls ‘hipsters’. Bucky doesn’t know what to feel about them; on the one hand, the clothes are familiar and comforting, but on the other, their strange, incongruous touches of modernity remind him of just how far removed he really is from his time.

At Bucky’s extended silence, the young man coughs nervously, shifting on his feet in a way that reminds him of himself. “Sorry- you just looked really happy,” the guy says, cheeks pinking as he nods at Bucky’s phone. “Trying to break the ice. I’m uh- not so great at that.”

Bucky’s lips quirk upwards. “You’re doing better than me.”

The man runs a hand through his stylishly cut hair; despite his tattoos and glasses he looks startlingly boyish and Bucky feels so very, very old. “I’m Lixing.”

“Bu- uhh- James.” He shakes the man’s offered hand with little hesitation; his grip is firm, but nothing like the people from the Tower, where handshaking is something of a competition, with each of them trying to crush the other’s bones. “Nice to meet you.”

“Same!” Lixing says with a grin. “So, what are you studying?”

“Ah- architecture.”

Lixing grins. “Hey that’s cool man- you always been interested in that kinda stuff?”

Bucky smiles enigmatically, thinking back to the months he’d spent deliberating on the decision. In a way, he still doesn’t quite know how he feels about it; the degree is five years, and it feels strange and unwise to commit himself to such a large time frame when less than a year ago he’d been certain he would die in Europe. A part of him still struggles to imagine a future for himself- regardless of being so thoroughly entrenched in it. “Yeah,” he says eventually, “but I’ve only found a recent interest in modernism and post-modernism.”

The man nods. Bucky wonders if he even knows what he’s talking about. “That’s pretty sweet! My dad’s a draftsman; he’s got like, five years before he can retire.”

He laughs, trying not to feel awkward. “Lucky guy… So what are you doing?”

“Electrical and computer engineering- I changed over from physics last year.”

“That’s neat- I’ve got friends who are engineers.” In his hand, Bucky’s phone buzzes silently, but he ignores it in favour of motioning at Lixing’s arms, desperate to keep the conversation going. “I- uh- I like your tattoos.”

“Thanks man!” Lixing beams and holds his arms out for his perusal. The detailed floral designs are bright and colourful, like someone’s painted straight onto his skin. Darcy would love them. “My friend designed them for me; she does some wicked floral illustrations.”

Bucky nods, grinning; Lixing’s smile is contagious, and Bucky almost hopes they’ll have more than a few classes together. Beyond the people back at the Tower, and a few of the veterans at the local VA, he hasn’t really branched out much; despite his regular visits to Murawczak, Bucky still feels uncomfortable in unfamiliar situations. And now- faced with _college-_ it takes every ounce of his will not to simply turn around and flee back the relative comfort of ~~Stark~~ Avengers Tower.

Inside, the lecturer is clearly wrapping up, and already Bucky can see some people jumping out into the aisles, eager to escape. They watch as the doors swing open and the students pile on out, the previously quiet space erupting into a solid wall of sound. He sets his jaw, weathering it stubbornly; if he wants to stick with this (and he does- oh, God, he does), Bucky knows he’s going to have to get used to loud places again, and he can’t help the lick of frustration in the back of his mind at the thought.

Bucky talks with Lixing quietly as the class disperses, and they venture inside when the room is completely empty. He grimaces at the temperature; if anything, the room feels even stuffier than the hall outside, and he tugs at his scarf as Lixing leads them smack bang in the middle of the room. It’s not a position Bucky would have chosen, but he keeps quiet, unwilling to draw unwanted attention to himself, though he can’t stop anxiously twirling his pen between his fingers as they wait for the lecturer to turn up.

Lixing sighs happily, slouching into his seat. He hasn’t even bothered to take out a notebook. “So what did you do before this? You’re a bit older than the usual lot.”

“Hm? Oh... I was in the- ah- in the army.”

Lixing’s brows rise, surprised. “Really? Wow, dude.”

Bucky lifts his shoulder up in an abortive shrug. “I left about eighteen months ago. Needed something to fill my time.”

He whistles lowly, evidently impressed. “And now you’re trying your hand at architecture? Man, you must be a sucker for punishment- I hear the courses later on are _brutal_.”

Bucky laughs, maybe a little too loudly. Sucker for punishment- _ha!_ “Yeah,” he says, biting his lip to try and hide his bitterness. “That’s me alright.”

 

* * *

 

_May 25 th 2014_

Bucky eyes the machinery in from of him dubiously. He doesn’t remember what Darcy called it (something about alternating something or other?) but he suspects even she doesn’t really know what it’s called. The mass of wires and circuit boards and little LED screens look like they’re held together with little more than duct tape and the tears of a frustrated astrophysicist, and he wonders how it even managed to survive the long drive across the countless unsealed roads of Mexico.

Absently, he wipes a thin layer of sweat away from his forehead. “Where did Jane say she wanted this?” he asks. Darcy barely even glances up from her phone, finger sliding across the screen madly as she writes a message- likely to Stark, going by the crease in her brow. Possible Jane, considering he’s yet to actually see her yet.

“Hmm?”

He huffs a laugh, shaking his head at her in amusement. “The… this thing- where do you want me to put it?”

She looks up properly, legs swinging carelessly as she sits on the desk. “Oh! Right- sorry. I think she wants it over there.”

Bucky squints over at what she’s pointing to. The sheltered outdoor area is a cluttered mess of electronics, paper and whiteboards, much like Jane’s lab back home, really. “… She wants it beside the coffee maker? Why is there even a coffee maker out here?”

Darcy shrugs. “Don’t ask me- whatever’s going on in Jane’s head is lost to me right now- Thor’s thrown her usual groove completely out of whack.”

He frowns. “We’ve only been here half an hour- how could you possibly know that?”

She shrugs again, attention already drawn back to her phone. “Thor always throws her groove out of whack. It’s like- the natural way of things.”

“Right,” he says, and stoops down to pick up the machine. He lets out a little ‘oof’ of surprise at the weight of it- even for him. “ _Jesus Christ_ , what did she put in here- a black hole?”

Darcy snorts. “I _really_ wouldn’t put it past her.”

Bucky grunts in agreement and heaves himself upwards, taking care not to let the machine escape his grip. “You know,” he grouses as he stumbles over to the desk. “You could give me a hand.”

“I could,” Darcy hums, phone now sitting on her lap. Bucky sets the machine down gratefully, ignoring the way the plastic table groans unhappily. As he turns back around he catches Darcy’s gaze run appreciatively over his body; she grins when she realises he’s caught her ogling. “Of course, then I’d be deprived of the view.”

Bucky raises an unimpressed brow at her and fights the grin threatening to spread across his face. “Baby doll, you don't need to sit back to get a view.”

Her eyes darken and she beckons for him. Bucky complies eagerly, slotting himself into the space between her legs with a practiced ease. He grins as her feet hook around the back of his thighs, pulling him in closer.

“Gross,” Jane says, appearing in the ‘lab’ just as Bucky leans down to kiss Darcy. “Keep it in your pants you two.”

Darcy snorts, unrepentant, even as Bucky jumps away from her as though burnt. “Oh please,” she drawls, “you’re only saying that because you don’t want to give Thor the wrong idea. What was it you said about Bucky the other day? Something about the thickness of his thighs and his ‘shapely’ a-”

“Point taken!” Jane says quickly and a little too loudly. Her cheeks turn a deep pink and Bucky winks at her just to watch them go even darker.

“You two talk about me, huh? I’m flattered.”

“It ain’t just your ass we talk about love,” Darcy remarks lightly, and her gaze lingers pointedly on the front of his jeans. Suddenly it’s his turn to blush, and he tugs at the collar of his shirt in embarrassment.

“Uh- where’s Thor?” he asks, desperate to change the subject.

Jane shrugs. “Out flying. He said something about surfing the ley lines; apparently they’re particularly strong here? I’ve been meaning to check it out, actually, but I figured I’d wait until the two of you got here.”

Darcy laughs. “Well, now that we’re _finally_ here, you can research them to your heart’s content.” Jane visibly brightens at the thought, and Darcy sends her a meaningful look, holding her arms open. “And now I think I deserve a hug, don’t you think? Do you have any idea how long the drive to get here was? With no air-conditioning either, I might add. Bucky wouldn’t even let me drive!”

“That’s because you drive like a maniac.” Jane rolls her eyes, but throws herself into her friend’s embrace with enthusiasm. “I’m glad you’re finally here,” she sighs.

Darcy smirks at her. “Aw Jane-the-Brain, I didn’t know you’d miss me that much!”

Jane shakes her head, and the smirk she echoes back makes Bucky bite his lip to stop himself from laughing at them. “Well who else is going to make me coffee? Thor? Do I need to remind you of what happened to the last coffee machine?”

“Excuse you,” Darcy drawls, shooting a cheeky look over to him, “but I’ll be making no one’s coffee, thank-you very much. That’s what our new intern is for.”

Bucky sighs and stares up at the ceiling as she motions at him with a flourish. “For the last time, I’m not your intern.”

 One joke. All it had taken was _one joke_ from Natasha and suddenly Darcy refuses to call him anything else. And he _still_ doesn’t know what the deal is with it.

Jane snorts in amusement, but there’s a wicked look on her face that promises he won’t be free of the moniker any time soon. “How is he with thirty-year-old coffee machines?”

“Well considering he hit ninety-seven in March, I’m sure he’ll be able to work it out.”

Bucky shakes his head, but he can’t help but grin at the light ribbing. The thought of reaching a spry ninety-seven does amuse him, even if the premise is entirely faulty. “You’re both being very rude,” he tells them, trying very hard to sound serious. “Here I am, joining my lovely girlfriend on this charming holiday to Mexico, and the pair of you decide to pretend I’m your coffee gopher.”

“Aw babe,” Darcy croons at him, hopping down from her perch to sling an arm around his waist, “are you feeling underappreciated?”

“Very,” he says, loving the way her smile seems to dance in her eyes.

“Aw. Maybe I could make it up to you?”

Bucky tries hard not to be affected by the seductive curve of her lips and the way she looks up at him through her lashes, but he’s not certain he quite manages. “Maybe,” he says, mouth suddenly dry. “Or maybe I could start making terrible coffee. Remind you _exactly_ what this ninety-seven year old grew up drinking.”

“Ugh- low blow.”

“I could blow lower-”

“Oh no.” Jane is watching them with something close to apprehension on her face. “You two are going to be _that couple_ , aren’t you?”

“Oh Janey,” Darcy says sweetly, “why do you think Stark was so eager to send us over here? Those private jets of his are really something else, by the way. The stripper poles are a nice touch.”

All three of them laugh. “Oh my God,” Jane snickers. “Is that man for real?”

“In his defence, he _did_ say it was one of his older jets,” Bucky adds, not entirely sure why he feels the need to defend the other man. Stark really is all kinds of ridiculous; just like his father in that respect.

In the distance, thunder rumbles and Darcy grins. “Sounds like Thor’s back!” She runs out the door, and Bucky and Jane follow her out at a more sedate pace. He searches the sky, looking for any hint of the Asgardian. To the south, he spies a strange gathering of dark grey clouds, and he smiles as he watches lightning spear across the sky, the sharp crack of thunder reaching them some seconds later. A dark speck appears through the clouds, and it grows larger as it approaches them at great speed. Bucky really should ask Thor if he’ll let him go for a ride with Mjolnir sometime.

Thor lands several yards from them, the ground beneath his feet visibly indented by the force of his landing. The shockwave ripples beneath their feet and Bucky can feel it reverberate through his chest like a second heartbeat.

“Darcy! Bucky!” Thor cries, overjoyed at their appearance. Mjolnir falls through his hands, forgotten as he strides over to them to first wrap Darcy, then Bucky in a spine-crushing hug. “It is wonderful to see you again!”

“Good to see you too,” Bucky gasps, face squashed against the unforgiving metal of Thor’s chest plates. They’re freezing against his cheek and covered with what feels like a thin layer of frost, despite the balmy day. His face feels numb when Thor lets him go, and he rubs at his icy skin, feeling like more than a few of his vertebra have shifted out of place. “How’ve you been?”

“I am quite well,” Thor says, his exuberance dimming. “Though I admit… I have been avoiding Asgard of late. Since my mother’s death, my father has been… out of sorts.”

Bucky pulls a face in understanding. “That’s rough buddy.”

Thor nods at him gravely, before visibly shaking away his concerns. Darcy and Jane begin wandering back into the little house, and both men watch them leave. Thor looks thoughtful when Bucky turns back to him. “It is concerning, my friend, but let it be a matter for another time. We have greater things to celebrate!” He clasps Bucky on the shoulder with enough force to make him stumble. “Jane tells me you have finished your first semester of studies! Congratulations!”

Bucky laughs. “Thanks; it was kind of a culture shock. I haven’t studied for a long time. I almost wasn’t sure I’d survive.”

“Ah, but you are an intelligent young man,” Thor’s voice rumbles. The pride in his voice is surprising, but heartening, and Bucky smiles, not even bothering to point out that he’s not felt ‘young’ for a long time. “I am certain you will conquer this hurdle with as much ease as Darcy and Jane have.”

He nods. “Thank-you.” He stares up at the Asgardian; despite Bucky’s height, Thor still towers over him. His hair is pulled back in a lazy ponytail- the hair elastic is a sparkly purple- and more than a few unruly strands catch on the stubble on his jaw. Bucky has almost forgotten how _peaceful_ Thor feels, despite his liveliness. “It’s really great to see you again.”

Thor looks down at him, a pleased smile curling at his lips. “As it is to see you,” he says. “Is this new century faring you better than your first?”

Bucky runs his tongue across his teeth. “Yeah. Things are a lot better now.”

“I am glad,” Thor murmurs, and he scratches absently at his jaw, staring off into the distance where the clouds marking his arrival are slowly dispersing. “I know our circumstances are not the same, but I understand how this… exile must feel. When I was banished to Midgard… the feeling- the _grief_ \- was beyond anything I had ever experienced. My only hope is that things will grow easier for you.”

Bucky huffs a laugh, the sound cold and mirthless. A bitter part of him can’t help think that at least Thor’s exile had ended. _He’s_ stuck here forever. “Thanks, I guess.”

Thor regards him solemnly. “I’m sure it is of no comfort now, but things will get better, Bucky Barnes.”

Bucky opens his mouth to say something else, but there are no words to be found behind his tongue.

“Hey!”

Thor and Bucky glance back to the house: rundown and worse for wear, it looks like something straight out of those horror films Natasha and Clint are fond of. Darcy’s head pokes out the door, brows raised at the pair of them. “If you two old men are finished gas-bagging, Jane and I would like the intern to come and make us some coffee!”

Bucky laughs, shaking his head in fond exasperation. “For the last time, doll,” he calls back. “I’m not your goddamn intern!”

 

* * *

 

_June 9 th 2014_

Two weeks pass for Bucky at a glacial pace. The long stretch of days are filled with sleepless nights and drowsy afternoons, mornings spent trying to sleep beneath the dull drone of pedestal fans, pillows stuffed over his face to try and block out the sun. The heat reminds him of Brooklyn; reminds him of sweltering days sprawled out on wooden floors with Steve, sweat dripping down his spine as he worked down at the docks and the feeling of feverish cheeks after a boxing session. It fills Bucky with a nostalgia that makes his ribs _ache_ , and sometimes there’s nothing he’d like more than to return to that time, when things weren’t easier, but certainly felt _simpler_.

Bucky and Thor spend most of their time beating each other at Mario Kart and GoldenEye on the Nintendo 64 the house mysteriously came equipped with, and reading or drawing. Thor turns out to be rather adept at portraiture, much to everyone’s surprise, and the pair of them while away more than one afternoon hunched over the old table in the kitchen, the wadded pages of an old newspaper stuffed beneath one of its uneven legs, charcoal and graphite smeared on their hands as Darcy and Jane crunch numbers and interpret the gathered data from the night before. It’s peaceful- if a little dull- but their respective girlfriends seem too engrossed in their work for Bucky to find it in himself to demand they do something else for a change.

The little house in the hills is isolated, tucked away and hidden from the nearest settlement- almost an hour away- and even though he and Thor take to visiting the little town every few days, sometimes the quiet of their little ‘holiday home’ seems to crawl across his skin, and Bucky yearns desperately for the constant background static of the city. The two of them like to wander the streets when they venture out; Bucky knows little Spanish, but he’s a quick learner, and Thor seems to get along just fine with his Allspeak.

The last time they’d gone out was three days ago, and Bucky can already feel the familiar restlessness settling in his bones. Thor- bless his soul- notices all too easily.

“Do you wish to go to Ocampo tomorrow?” the Asgardian asks, his muscles bulging as they carry one of Jane’s machines out to her truck. Bucky’s not entirely sure _why_ they have to do this every day, but part of him suspects it’s mostly for the show.

A lush quiet hangs over the homestead, and the sun sits low on the horizon, almost completely tucked away behind the hills, and the golden light catches on the metal of the tray and makes him squint. Thor moves to block the light for him and he smiles gratefully. “I’d like that- we need more meat, anyway; _someone_ ate the last of it.”

Thor grins at him cheerily. “How rude of them.”

Bucky glares back at him. “Yeah- they didn’t even bother sharing it, the bastard.”

“Unbelievable,” Thor says solemnly. Bucky snorts and rolls his eyes as they carefully manoeuvre the machine into the back of Jane’s truck. His gaze lingers on one of the outdoor chairs as they walk back to the house: he knows that tucked away against one of its back legs is a long and deadly knife.

Bucky doesn’t know how Jane gained access to their lodgings; a relatively small, three bedroom homestead with an outhouse and a spacious outdoor area that backs straight into the hill. It’s a curious mix of old and new, and its out-of-date electrical fittings work in complete contrast to the solar panels on the roof and the new and shiny décor. A week in and Bucky begins to suspect it may be a safe house of some kind, when he finds a loaded handgun taped to the slats beneath his and Darcy’s bed. Unnerved by its presence, yet oddly hesitant to tell anyone about his find, he makes a thorough sweep of the house, and uncovers another two guns in the kitchen, a garrotte wire hidden on the underside of the rickety table, several nasty-looking bowie knives taped beneath the sofa and TV cabinet, along with countless other weapons that leave him deathly curious as to what else he might find outside.

Part of him wonders if it's Natasha’s; though _why_ she'd lend them her safe house for a research trip is beyond him, the agent’s fondness for Jane and Darcy notwithstanding.

A week on, and he still doesn't know if he should tell anyone about the weapons. 

“Hey Buck!” Darcy says as they re-enter the homestead, straight into the kitchen. Her smile is broad and warm, lighting up her face like she hasn’t seen him for weeks. He can’t help but gravitate towards her, drawing her into his arms and breathing in the smell of lime body wash and freshly brewed coffee. 

“Hey doll,” he breathes into her hair, and Darcy’s arms snake around his waist, pressing herself against him like an affectionate cat. “I wasn’t gone that long.”

“I know,” she murmurs. “I just felt like hugging you.”

He huffs a laugh into her hair. “You’re ridiculous.”

Behind them, Jane makes a soft sound of disgust at their ‘wanton display of affection’, but fortunately refrains from commenting, and when he pulls back, he catches a distant look of fondness of Thor’s face as he watches the two of them. Bucky raises a brow in inquiry, and Thor smiles at him sheepishly.

“Forgive me,” he says. “It is only that you remind me of my mother and father, when I was a boy.”

 Jane’s nose wrinkles in confusion, and she looks up at her soulmate, bemused. “ _Really?_ Your father?”

Thor shrugs, unaffected by her scepticism. “My father can be many things,” he admits, “but he always loved my mother. When we were children- before time could steal our youth- Loki and I were privileged to witness my father frequently express his love for our mother. They were a couple who loved each other fervently, and I often dreamed of experiencing it for myself… but it is only with age that I have realised that love can be expressed in many ways and still be true.”

“Aww, you big softy,” Darcy coos. Thor rolls his eyes at her, tucking a brilliantly red Jane into his side.

“Yes- well,” she says, coughing and looking everywhere but at the three of them. “I’m- uh- glad you feel that way.”

Thor’s rumbling laugh seems to reverberate in Bucky’s chest, and he bites his lip in amusement as the Asgardian nuzzles at Jane’s hair, her blush spreading down her neck at the affectionate touch. “You know I feel many ways about you,” he murmurs, the words likely meant only for Jane to hear, but his voice is a touch too loud and Jane squirms in her seat, eyes widening.

“Aaand that might be enough of the PDA’s for now,” Darcy says loudly, grinning at the two of them. “Let’s keep this PG-13, shall we?” She jumps up from her seat, rubbing her hands together. “How about some lunch before we go?”

“Ugh,” Jane grimaces. “I still hate how weird it is so have lunch at seven at ‘night’.”

“I don’t see how you’re not used to it, considering how much of your work gets done _at night._ You’re the astrophysicist, Jane. It’s basically in your job description.”

“So are you,” Jane points out. Darcy snorts, ducking down to pluck a frying pan out from one of the kitchen drawers.

“Oh come on, I’m just a baby astrophysicist.”

“With your very own intern,” Jane adds teasingly. Bucky groans.

“How long are you two going to keep flogging that dead horse?” he sighs. Darcy snickers as she tosses vegetables from the fridge onto the counter.

“Don’t worry, honey,” Darcy says, smirking. “We’ll break your spirit sooner or later.”

“Unbelievable,” he huffs, turning to Thor. “Can you believe these two?”

Thor says nothing, his head tilted to the side, a distant, almost disconcerted look on his face. Bucky frowns at him. “Thor?”

The big guy sucks in a sharp breath, shaking his head as though dispelling a troubling thought. “I apologise… I thought that I had heard somethi-”

The front door crashes open with a loud and violent _CRACK_ and the kitchen is suddenly thrown into chaos. Darcy and Jane scream in shock as the door flies straight off its hinges, landing several yards away, the wall cracking with the impact. The four of them duck down on instinct, and cursing, Bucky glances across at Darcy, exposed in the kitchen proper, recalling with unnerving clarity how far the nearest weapon is from his position. _Too far_ -

A man dressed in black tactical gear stands where the door should have been. The lower half of his face hidden by a mask, and his eyes and short hair are smeared with what looks like black paint.

On his chest is the familiar, stylised image of an eagle. Bucky’s heart stutters in his chest.

“What the fu-” Darcy starts, but abruptly grows still as a gun is levelled in her face, her eyes widening with shock, but the man’s aim simply passes over her to land on Jane and Thor. Bucky’s stomach drops, and he reaches up beneath the table, searching for the- there!

Thor bristles at the blatant threat, jumping to his feet. “What is the meaning of this?” he roars as he extends his arm to summon Mjolnir.

The man doesn’t even blink. “Shield sends their regards,” he says, his voice oddly garbled, as though being spoken through a modulator, and then Bucky doesn’t have any time to think because he’s pulling out another gun and the room fills with the deafening dual _CRACK_ ’s of his weapons being fired, and Thor staggers backwards just as Mjolnir bursts through a wall and flies straight past its master, embedding itself in the fridge. Darcy screams again, but Bucky can scarcely hear it over the sound of his ringing ears. Thor trips and falls heavily to the ground, but he’s only dazed and disorientated, despite being taking a headshot at close range and Bucky praises the hardiness of Asgardians.

“Jane!” he faintly hears Darcy cry, and Bucky curses again, glancing over at the woman. She lies on the floor, looking surprised as she clutches at her stomach with bloody hands, a pool of red seeping away from her prone form. His gut plummets in fear and shock.

The man stalks through the wreckages of their kitchen towards her prone form, pistols still raised.

“JANE!” Thor bellows, and he stumbles to his feet, but his movements are sluggish and uncoordinated as he tries to swing a punch at the masked man. Their attacker blocks his swing almost as an afterthought, and tosses him into the table, the wood splintering beneath the weight of the concussed Asgardian.

The man aims at Jane again, and Bucky lunges at him before he can pull the trigger. They topple to the ground, Bucky’s garrotte wire wrapped ineffectually around the man’s neck, and Bucky snarls as he lands on his elbow wrong, pain lancing up his arm. The man grunts with the force of their impact, and one of his guns falls from his gloved hand, scattering across the aged linoleum. Deprived of his weapon, he draws his elbow backwards, landing a vicious hit to Bucky’s stomach and forcing the breath out of him in one fell swoop.

Unfazed, Bucky fumbles for the man’s second handgun, still trying to aim at Jane and he retaliates with another elbow to Bucky’s stomach. Bucky slams his arm onto the floor, and the man’s shot misses wildly, the drywall to their right exploding with dust.

“Thor!” he wheezes, slamming the man’s arm down again in another attempt to disarm him, but he seems almost impossibly strong, and it takes all of Bucky’s desperate strength to gain any meagre ground. “Get her out of here!”

Thor pushes himself up onto all fours, but his gaze is confused and unfocussed. “What?” he slurs, and Bucky curses as their attacker bucks beneath him, rolling them over and backhanding Bucky with his free hand. His head slams against the linoleum, and black spots momentarily cloud his vision. He reaches up blindly, still reaching for their attacker’s handgun.

“Asgard!” Bucky cries out, and he can feel the gun recoil in his hand as another shot rings out, this time aimed at him. Flecks of concrete and linoleum spray up at him and he flinches away, snarling as his hearing fades to a distant whine. “She’s dying!” he thinks he shouts, but he can scarcely hear a thing. “Fucking _get her out!_ ”

Thor rears back, and Bucky catches the faintest flicker of clarity on his face before his attention is drawn back to the ‘Shield agent’. Thor throws himself over Jane, and suddenly the room fills with blinding white and rainbow light, and Bucky feels his ears _pop_ at the abrupt change in air pressure, though he can scarcely hear it.

As quickly as it comes, the Bifrost disappears. Thor and Jane are replaced by a gaping hole in the ceiling and a charred pattern of knot work embedded in the floor. Bucky blinks, his eyes watering at the image of the Rainbow Bridge seared into his retinas, and in the aftermath, the man scrambles off him, headed straight for the door.

“No you fucking don’t!” Bucky growls, and he lunges over the floor, reaching out for the man’s discarded Glock. Its weight in his hand is familiar, but far from comforting, and Bucky heaves himself unsteadily to his feet.

“Bucky!” Darcy cries after him, but he’s already out the door, chasing after the gunman. The man is fast- he flies across the dry earth like the hounds of hell are after him- but so is Bucky, and for all that it’s been more than a year since he’s last seen combat, aiming the Glock and squeezing the trigger feels as familiar as breathing.

The bullet tears through the back of the man’s thigh and he crumples to the ground. Bucky is on him even as he tries to stand up again, but the ‘agent’ anticipates his approach and his arm shoots out, dragging him to the ground. He catches a flash of metal in the dying light of the evening and blocks the downward swing of the vicious-looking knife just in time, the blade sinking into the earth just beside his shoulder.

“Fuck you!” Bucky spits up at him. The white of his Shield insignia stands out starkly on his black jacket, taunting him. He bares his teeth at the agent, impossibly angry. How dare he? _How dare he?_ He shot Thor- could have killed Jane- threatened Darcy! Shield is meant to be on _their side!_ Enraged, he shifts his grip on his gun and slams it into the man’s jaw with enough force snap his head to the side. His mask flies off, rolling across the dusty ground before coming to a rest against a rock, lying almost innocuously on the dry earth.

Bucky tries to get a proper look at his face, but his attention is claimed by another knife flying at him and he grabs at the man’s wrist with both hands, stopping his thrust just inches from his jugular. He grunts in exertion- the man is insanely _strong-_ and tries to buck him off, but he’s pinned down good and the man snarls at him in anger and then-

Bucky’s world

Just…

 _Stops_.

“Steve?”

The man frowns at him in confusion. “Who the hell is Steve?”

Bucky gapes up at him, floored. He’s dead. Surely, somehow, he’s died, and this is all just a strange fever dream. It can’t be- _it cant be!_ His words echo in Bucky’s head- _who the hell is Steve who the hell is Steve WHO THE HELL IS STEVE?_

Sensing his frozen shock, Steve tosses his knife into his free hand and plunges it into Bucky’s shoulder.

Pain erupts in his arm and he screams, the spell broken. He clutches at the knife, embedded deep in his shoulder. Steve rolls off him, but desperate, Bucky’s good arm shoots out to grip at the back of one of the shoulder straps of his jacket. “NO!” he cries, the word ripped from his chest whether he wants them to leave or not. He feels like his world’s ended all over again, breathless and in agony. “Steve- wait- _please!_ ”

“ _No!_ ” Steve snarls at him, and he twists in Bucky’s grip. His fist flies out, aimed straight for his head-

And then-

 _Nothing_.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> BEFORE YOU ALL GO ASKING, PLEASE NOTE THAT THERE IS NO 'MAJOR CHARACTER DEATH' WARNING IN MY TAGS FOR A REASON
> 
> *throws glitter into the air and dances away*


	5. Chapter 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This one's got multiple POV's, and tbh it won't be the last time, either ^.^ Expect some Sam POV parts in the future!!!
> 
> Also, the chapter count has been increased; I've completely planned out this fic now, so I have a definite count on the length of this, which is nice :D DotGoS is definitely going to be far more plot-driven than any of my other multi-chapter stories!

 

_June 9 th 2014_

Vamirez won’t stop fiddling with the straps of her jacket.

_Snip – click._

_Snip – click._

Over and over, the sound slowly grating on his nerves. He tries to be understanding- it’s her first mission with the Asset and she’s understandably unnerved by its hollow stare and unwavering silence- but it’s hard when all Evan can think about is how very fucked he’ll be if the mission turns sour. He’d been over the moon to learn he’d be heading the mission… until he’d learnt what it actually entails. The higher-ups have a lot riding on the success of this… what that _is_ precisely, he doesn’t know, but he understands the phrase ‘failure is not an option’ perfectly well.

_Snip – click – snip – click – snip – click-_

“Would you fucking quit it?” Hirst snaps suddenly, his eyes flashing dangerously in the dim light of the shitty living room they’re camped out in. Vamirez jumps and the sound abruptly stops. Hirst shakes his head in disgust, and Evan can’t help but empathise. “Fucksake- act like a fucking professional.”

She glares at him, the thick muscles of her neck bulging as she clenches her jaw, and Evan is abruptly reminded of the damage she’d done to the last idiot that smart-mouthed her. “You want to say that again?” she murmurs, the danger clear as day in her voice.

Hirst opens his mouth to say something but Evan beats him too it. Hot heads. For fuck’s sake. “Enough,” he says. His eyes stray over to the old clock nailed to the wall; it’d gone dark about twenty minutes ago. “The Asset should be back soon.”

Rosier snorts derisively from beside him, his feet perched on the coffee table as he plays with a butterfly knife. His boots are dusty and leave smears of dirt on the scratched wood. “You mean if the Asgardian hasn’t squashed it to a pulp. You seen the guns on that bastard? Fuck.”

“Even so, we need to be ready to leave.”

“What are they even thinking, provoking that lot?”

Evan shoots him a sharp glare. “You know better than to question the higher-ups. They have their reasons.”

Rosier rolls his eyes. “And what possible reason could there be to-” he breaks off, the guttural snarl of a motorbike reaching their ears. Evan jumps up from the ratty couch and the room falls silent as they fan out behind him. The engine shuts off and the night falls quiet once more. Evan fingers at the safety on his pistol as he hears heavy boots crunch on the gravel outside, and then the front door is swinging open and the Asset stalks through, closing the door quietly behind itself.

There’s dust in its hair, and Evan spies the remains of dried blood on its right thigh, though it doesn’t limp as it stands before him. He swallows back his nerves, disconcerted by its customary slack features, like a puppet with its strings cut.

“Soldier,” Evan says, pulling himself up to his full height. The Asset still towers over him, the breadth of him intimidating despite its passive behaviour. “Mission status?”

“Mission status successful,” the Asset says. His eyes list to the side, as though unable to hold his gaze.

“Foster’s dead?”

For a moment, Evan could swear that the Asset’s empty stare turns lucid; hard and vicious, as though tearing straight through his soul, but then he blinks and the sensation is gone, its eyes again turning distant and unfocussed. “Yes,” it says flatly. “The target is gone.”

“And the Asgardian?”

“Gone.”

Evan nods, satisfied with its answer. _Failure is not an option_. “What about Foster’s lackeys? Were there any other witnesses?”

It’s quiet for a moment, and Evan’s heart begins to sink in dismay, before it shakes its head. “They were taken care of,” it says. “There were no other witnesses.”

The room breathes out a collective sigh of relief. “Right,” he glances around the room, gaze skimming over his colleagues, “clear out. Let’s fly before someone can stumble across the bodies.”

The four of them flurry into motion, packing away what little gear they’d taken with them. The Asset stands motionless in the centre of the room, dead gaze still fixed on the back wall. Vamirez keeps glancing over at it, still ill-at-ease in its presence. Evan doesn’t blame her; there’s something distinctly off-putting about it. Something that hadn’t been there at the start of this mission, he’s certain. A menacing, untouchable air hanging over it that makes the hair on the back of Evan’s neck prickle. He pushes the unease to the back of his mind, concerning himself on ensuring no trace of their presence is left behind.  

It’s only as they’re bundled into the SUV and driving away that Evan wonders how the Asset got that gunshot wound.

He says nothing.

_Failure is not an option._

 

* * *

 

Bucky wakes with a startled gasp, heart hammering in his chest. He tries to get up, but pain lances through his body and he collapses back onto the ground with a groan.

“Bucky? Oh thank God!”

He turns his head blindly towards the sound of Darcy’s voice. His mouth tastes of blood and dust, and his head and left shoulder throb viciously. “Darce?” he rasps, and she falls to her knees beside him.

“Hey, Buck,” she says softly, stroking his sweaty hair with shaking fingers. “Welcome back to the land of the living.”

He swallows, looking around, wary. They’re under the awning of the outdoor area that backs into the hill, golden light bouncing off the corrugated iron covering. He lies on something soft- one of the blankets from their bed, he thinks- but the lack of padding means he can feel the hard surface of the bricks beneath it. He’s shirtless, and the tight pressure across his chest and shoulder make him think Darcy’s bandaged him up. “Why aren’t we in the house?” he asks slowly. His limbs feel clumsy and sluggish when he lifts his good arm to rub at his face and he grimaces. “How long have I been out?”

Darcy bites her lip. Even in the sickly yellow outdoor lights, he can clearly see how red her eyes are- like she’s been crying. “About an hour,” she says softly, “And there’s kind of a huge hole in the ceiling- I didn’t think it was safe.” Bucky sucks in a sharp breath and tries again to sit up, heart suddenly hammering in his chest.

“Shit! I gotta-”

“Bucky _no_ ,” Darcy says firmly, pressing back on his good shoulder. “You’re injured- you need to rest-”

“You don’t understand!” he growls. He props himself up on his good arm, and Darcy’s fingers curl against his bare skin, blunt fingernails digging in deep. “I need to-”

“ _No,_ ” she says, looking determined. “You were just _stabbed_. You’re in no condition to go running after that- that _monster_ ,” she spits out the word with such venom that his throat seems to close on itself. “I came outside and I- I thought you were dead… Let him run- we have bigger things to wor-”

“Darcy, it was Steve!”

She pauses, frowning at him in confusion. “What, Steve from your fundamentals class?”

“No,” he snaps. “Steve as in, Steve _Rogers_. My best friend.”

Darcy blinks at him. Her eyes stray to the side of his head, which still throbs with every move he makes (he tries hard not to think about what may have happened to him had he not had the serum). “You’re not making any sense.” She reaches down to gently prod his head, as though searching for proof. “You must still be concussed.”

“I’m _fine_ ,” he hisses, batting her hand away. “I know what I saw- it was Steve, Darce.”

“But that’s impossible,” she says, looking lost and unsure. “He _died_ , Bucky.”

“What if he didn’t? What if the stories are wrong?”

She stares at him, troubled and almost… wary. As though she expects him to go crazy. “That’s insane. And even if that _was_ the case- and I’m not saying it is- he’d have to be almost a hundred by now!”

Bucky shakes his head, wincing at the pain that spears through his temple at the movement. “I don’t know how they managed it- maybe the serum’s protecting him, or- or it’s given him longevity or _something_ , but whatever it is, he’s _alive_ , Darcy. He’s alive and I have to- I need to go after him.”

“Bucky, he _stabbed you_ ,” she growls, eyes flashing with concern and anger. “He _shot_ Jane- for all we might know she could be d-dead. That doesn’t scream a sane and stable mind. And either way, you’re certainly in no condition to chase after him again, and even if you were, I can guarantee he’ll be long gone.”

His heart sinks as he sees the wisdom in her words. He swallows, eyes burning- close. _So close._ He’d been close enough to touch him, and Steve had-

“He didn’t know who I was,” he rasps. “He looked straight through me.”

Darcy’s gaze is impossibly sad. “I think you need to entertain the possibility that he isn’t your friend anymore.”

“No,” Bucky says firmly. “ _No_. It’s- he’s still Steve. I don’t know what’s happened to him- what’s been done to him- but he’s still my friend.”

She lets out a shaky breath, glancing over at the house with something close to dread. “We need to get out of here,” she says softly. “Before Shield comes back to finish us off.”

“No,” Bucky says firmly. “That wasn’t Shield.”

She stares at him, perplexed. “Bucky- you heard him. You saw the insignia on his jacket.”

He huffs, annoyed at her, though he knows logically that his irritation is misplaced. Everything _hurts._ “Help me up,” he orders. Darcy jumps to help him sit up, now that she’s certain he’s not about to run off after a ghost. Bucky smiles at her tightly in thanks, vision blurring momentarily at the change in positions, but he’s not finished talking by far. “Do you really think, if Shield wanted to assassinate the four of us, they would have made themselves so transparent? You heard what he- what _Steve_ said. It was like one of those terrible action movies Clint and Sam like.”

“But this house… Bucky, Shield offered it to us when they found out where Jane wanted to go. No one else knows where we are- no one but Shield and the Avengers, and I refuse to believe anyone from the team could have betrayed us. If not Shield, then who?”

He chews on his lip, thoughtful. “I don’t know. Someone has to have found out about it though. The better question is _why_.”

Darcy breathes in shakily. “He shot them… if you hadn’t stopped him, he’d have killed Jane outright, but I doubt any bullets could have killed Thor.” Bucky’s almost proud of the way her voice barely wavers as she talks, and suddenly he remembers that this isn’t the first time she’s been in a crisis situation. “What kind of motivation is there for that? He didn’t even try to- to take care of any… _witnesses_.”

“Maybe whoever sent him wanted witnesses. How else could they frame Shield?”

She sucks in a sharp breath, eyes widening. “Oh my God.”

“What?”

She shakes her head, looking fearful. “What if- what if Jane was the only target?”

His stomach drops. “She’s Thor’s soulmate; killing her would have been-”

“An act of war,” Darcy finishes, her mouth set in a grim line. “He’ll take the entirety of Asgard down on Shield if Odin will let him. There’s no way Thor would let something like this go.”

His stomach drops. “It’d be a bloodbath.”

 “We need to get back to New York, like, right now.”

“Agreed,” he murmurs, glancing over at the house. “We’ll have to take anything invaluable with us; I don’t think you’ll want to just leave your research lying around. For all we know they might want to come back for it.”

“Right… but none of this explains how they knew where we were. I thought the purpose of safe houses is that they were… you know, safe.”

“Unless there’s a leak.”

They share a troubled look. It’s not a comforting thought.

Bucky holds out his good arm. “Help me up?”

Darcy smiles at him uneasily and stands, taking his extended hand and laboriously helps him up. His hands shake at the combined agony from his head and shoulder but he grits his teeth, hoping she won’t be able to see his discomfort. She looks at him with concern anyway, and he attempts a smile, trying to alleviate some of her worries. It’s only marginally successful.

“I’d have given you painkillers,” she admits, nodding over at the first aid kit on the floor, its innards strewn out haphazardly. Her bloody fingerprints are glaringly obvious on them, even in the relatively dim light. “But I didn’t know what to use.”

He lifts his good shoulder in a shrug. “It’s fine- painkillers would compromise me anyway.”

Not to mention, they’re unlikely to last long enough to be effective, if Steve and his serum are anything to go by.

“You should pack it up,” he says instead of voicing his doubts. “We might need it still.”

“Right,” she says softly, crouching down to pack it away. Bucky leaves her to it, stumbling around the crowded ‘lab’ and into the house in search of the weapons he’d found before. Today is the last time he’ll be caught unawares like that, he promises. The last time anyone levels a gun at Darcy’s head and gets away with it. Long-dead best friend or not, if Darcy gets hurt, he’ll kill them.

Darcy enters not long after he’s stripped the kitchen and living room of its weapons, and her eyes widen at the sight of the small pile that sits on the counter. “Woah- where the fuck did those come from?”

He shrugs, and promptly regrets it. _Fuck_ \- that shoulder’s going to take a bit of getting used to. “They’ve been in the house the whole time.”

She gapes at him. “Are you for serious? How do you even _know_ about them?”

The corner of his lips twitch upwards in a half-hearted smile. “I went looking. I’ve known where a lot of them are for about a week.”

Her eyes narrow. “So that’s why you were rummaging around under the sink the other day.”

He smiles sheepishly- he’d used the excuse of fixing a leaky pipe when Darcy had caught him. “Yeah… I guess whoever furnished the house wanted it prepared for any possibility.”

She snorts, the set of her mouth hard and bitter as her gaze strays to the conspicuous patch of dried blood on the floor, visible even beneath the burnt knotwork. “Fat lot of good that did us.”

Bucky walks over to squeeze lightly at her shoulder and she looks up at him, expression uncertain. “Do you think she’s okay?”

He pokes at the inside of his cheek, thinking carefully about his answer. “Asgard is far more advanced than us,” he says eventually. “Gut wounds like that are bad… but if anyone can save her, it’s Asgard. I’m sure of it.”

“You’re right,” she murmurs. “… Thank-you.”

He glances over at her questioningly. The pile of weaponry sitting on the bench weighs heavily on his mind: if he’d been _just a little closer_. “For what?”

“For stopping him. Things would have been a lot worse if it hadn’t been for you.”

He sighs, and draws her in for a hug. She holds her hands flat against his bare chest and runs her fingers over the edge of his bandages, as though looking for a sign to prove to herself that he’s real. Bucky brushes gently at a wisp of hair that hangs over her face, tucking it behind her ear. “What happened?” he asks quietly. “After- you know.”

She shudders, eyes falling closed for a moment. When they open again they look haunted, and Bucky realises belatedly that there’s blood etched beneath her fingernails, and staining her shirt- a dark reddish-brown on the pale blue fabric. “I couldn’t hear what was happening, but I watched from the doorway…. I saw him stab you and knock you out, but he took off straight after. I came out as soon as I was sure he was gone. At first I thought-” her face crumples and she bows her head to his chest, breath hot on his skin. Her hand strays out to brush against his soulmark on his ribs and Bucky shivers at her tentative touch. “I thought maybe you were dead. I patched you up best I could, and dragged you back to the house, but I was scared the roof might collapse.” She scowls up at him. “You’re fucking heavy, you know that?”

“‘M sorry.”

She lets out a shaky breath against his chest. “You did what you felt you had to.”

His fingers twitch at her wording and he looks down at her carefully. He doesn’t know what to say.

Sensing his guilt, Darcy huffs softly and draws away, her smile tight and not-quite genuine. “Look,” she says, voice matter-of-fact, “I get it. I really do. If you hadn’t gone running after him, you wouldn’t have learnt who he is… but you also wouldn’t have been stabbed. I know how important Steve was- _is_ \- to you and this is… it’s amazing. Impossible. But he _hurt you_.”

“It was him, Darce. I swear it.”

She smiles again, and cups his cheek. “I believe you. The question is… what do we do now? I know you want to go after him, but-”

“We have bigger things to worry about. I know.” He straightens, then winces as agony shoots out from his shoulder at the movement. “We need to get in contact with Shield- preferably Natasha or Sam, I think. See if Tony can’t get us a lift back.”

Darcy grimaces. “I tried already while you were out. No service.”

Bucky frowns. “But Stark’s phones usually-”

“I know,” she says. “I don’t know what’s blocking the signal- though now that I think of it, it’s probably the same people who sent Steve.” She pulls another face, equal parts sad and uncomfortable. “God- I can barely wrap my head around the idea of the first Captain America being an assassin.”

Bucky flinches and looks away, gaze landing on the conspicuous dark red stains on the floor. He sets his jaw, images of metal flashing in the dying evening light and Jane curled on the floor, blood pooling beneath her fingers, resurfacing in his mind. _Who the hell is Steve?_ “Neither can I.”

Darcy reaches out to take his hand. “We’ll find him, love. But first we need to work out who it was that sent him.”

“And get back to America.”

“And get back to America,” she echoes. She nods down at the pile of weapons on the dusty kitchen counter. “You’d best find somewhere to put those. I’d imagine you’ll want to take them with us.”

“Yeah. I’ll take care of these and you pack us some food and water?”

“Sure,” Darcy says, gaze sliding past him to the kitchen. “Make sure you pack some clothes for us too; fuck knows how long we’ll be gone for, but I’m not doing it without clean underwear.”

He laughs softly and leaves her to it, stepping gingerly around the wreckage of the ceiling and roof on the floor. Mjolnir lies on its side against the wall, and on a whim, Bucky pauses beside it. “I wonder,” he murmurs to himself, and he leans down to grip at the handle with his good hand.

It doesn’t move, a dead weight in his grip.

“Should have known.” He draws away from it with a rueful smile and exits, headed for their bedroom. The jump from ruinous kitchen to pristine hallway is almost disorientating, no evidence of the attack visible, and Bucky’s gaze pointedly avoids the second door that leads to Jane and Thor’s room. His shoulder throbs with every step- a reminder of his failure- and he sighs heavily, slipping into the other bedroom.

Inside, the hush feels almost deafening, and Bucky sets about on autopilot, stuffing clothes into his backpack, and fetching Darcy’s dufflebag for the weapons. He remembers just as he finishes to pick up their toothbrushes and deodorant from the bathroom, and he stows them away in one of the front pockets of the backpack. Belatedly, he realises he’s still not wearing a shirt, and plucks a button-down- now well and truly crumpled- from the pack and puts it on, twisting awkwardly to try not to jostle his wound too much. He leaves it unbuttoned, too tired to bother doing it up, and returns to the kitchen. Darcy has several plastic bags worth of non-perishables stacked on the counter, out of place beside the weapons. She raises a brow at his unbuttoned shirt, but says nothing.

He dumps the duffle on the counter and begins stowing them away. “You’ve got Jane’s research?” he asks. He tries not to think much about how easy it is to slip back into that empty, matter-of-fact state of mind he’d mastered during the war.

The corner of her lips twitch and she holds up two harddrives. One of them has a large sticker of a cartoon cat on it. “Everything we’ve ever done is on these, and the most crucial stuff is in a flash drive in my bra.”

Bucky smiles in approval. “Good,” he says. “Where are the keys to Jane’s truck?”

“Ah. I think they’re in the fridge.”

He shakes his head at her, bemused. “ _Why_?”

She shrugs. “I don’t know- probably just got distracted.”

He opens the fridge. Just as she’d said, the keys to the truck are in there- tucked away behind the eggs. He fishes them out, shaking his head in disbelief. “How is she even real,” he sighs. Darcy snickers, but the sound breaks off abruptly and he straightens, sending her a sympathetic glance.

“She’s an odd duck, I know. But she’s great,” she says, staring down at the blood beneath her nails.

_Jane, surprise clear on her face as she clutches her bloody stomach._

He hums, shoulder aching. “Yeah.”  He zips up the bag and glances around the room. “I think we’ve got everything.”

“Yeah,” Darcy hums. Her eyes widen as they land on his shoulder. “Oh! I should probably make you a sling for that. Wait here.”

“Right.” Bucky fiddles with the straps of his duffle as she leaves the room, returning with the first aid box and a gauzy triangular bandage. She folds it up against her leg, forehead creases in concentration.

“I remember learning to do this in girl scouts,” she says as she works. “Probably the only useful thing I took from it, to be honest. Never thought I’d have to actually _use_ that knowledge, but hey, there’s a first time for everything, I guess.”

He smiles weakly. “I learnt a bit during the war. And before that with Steve… mostly out of necessity, really.”

Darcy bites her lip, looking up at him from beneath her lashes. “I can’t even imagine what you must be feeling right now,” she says. He sighs.

_Who the hell is Steve?_

“I… to be honest, I don’t think I’ve really processed it yet. I don’t know if I even _want_ to.”

“Mm,” she hums, and she wraps the bandage around his forearm, her touch gentle. “Probably for the best right now.”

“Trauma suppression,” he says dully. Darcy brushes her knuckles over his bicep, tender, and far more loving than he deserves.

_Who the hell is Steve?_

“There’s something I’ve been wondering.”

“Mm?”

She pauses, moving around him and tying the knot at the base of his neck. Bucky grits his teeth at the pain, but it’s grounding, in a way. “It… doesn’t make sense to leave us around. If Thor was the only witness they needed, why keep us around? Why didn’t he- _Steve_ \- kill us too?”

He runs his tongue over his teeth. “I don’t know… I don’t know why they’d want to leave us alive.”

“You’d think they’d want to keep it quiet. Make Thor and his inevitable warpath a surprise.”

“Yeah,” he agrees. “I mean, the most I can think of is that they didn’t know we were there, but that seems…”

“Unlikely?”

“Yeah.”

Darcy finishes, tucking the collar of his shirt beneath the knot to prevent rubbing. “We should really leave before they realise we’re alive.”

_WHO THE HELL IS STEVE?_

He swallows thickly. “Agreed.”

 

* * *

 

Bucky clutches tightly at the handle above the door, eyes wide. Pain radiates from his shoulder punishingly with every erratic jerk the truck makes on the road, but he doesn’t have the heart to tell Darcy how futile it is to try and avoid the potholes.  

“I suddenly understand why Clint insisted I not let you drive,” he says as they swerve around another dip in the road. “I’d be impressed at how fast you’re going were I not so fucking terrified.”

Darcy snorts. “Excuse you, but I’m a _fantastic_ driver.”

“Ha!” he laughs, too sharp for it to be taken as genuine. He’s torn between watching the road obsessively and closing his eyes and pretend he’s just on a roller coaster. He did the same thing whenever some fool let Steve take the wheel in Europe; the damn punk crashed far too many vehicles for it to ever be considered a good idea. “I don’t know who gave you that impression, love, but I don’t think they’re good drivers themselves.”

“Bull! I’ll have you know that the Lewis’ haven’t had a car accident for close to fifty years. Speed tickets… sure, but no accidents. I only learn from the best.”

“You hit Thor!”

“Hey! That was a hundred percent Jane’s fault; she wrenched the wheel! Any idiot could tell you that’s a mistake.”

“Just like letting you drive,” he mutters beneath his breath. Darcy shoots him a glare.

“I heard that, asshole. See if I patch you up next time, you keep carrying on like this.”

He snorts. The entire left side of his body throbs with his every breath, compounded by Darcy’s erratic driving, though he’s loathe to admit how much pain he’s actually in. He wonders if she even stitched him up- he hasn’t had a chance to look at it since they left. “Just don’t get us killed, doll.”

“Please,” she scoffs. “I’m not about to go breaking the Lewis record any time soon.”

“Sure.” He glances down at his phone, and smiles in relief when he sees the little green bars. “We’ve got service again.”

She blows out through her teeth. “Thank fuck. Try calling Tony first- he’s not really affiliated with Shield- he’s our best bet.”

“Mm,” Bucky hums, and swipes his thumb over the fingerprint reader. He flicks through their contacts, before selecting the direct line to Jarvis; when it comes to contacting Stark, going via Jarvis is always the best option. “Fingers crossed we don’t go out of range again,” he says as the numbers dial, and lifts the device to his ear.

The line rings only once before Jarvis picks up. “ _Sergeant Barnes_ ,” the AI says pleasantly. “ _How may I help you?_ ”

“Hey Jarvis,” he says, trying not to feel silly knowing he’s talking to a bodiless butler. “Is this line secure?”

There’s a short pause, as though Jarvis is taken aback by his question. “ _Of course, sir_ ,” he says, and if he _is_ offended, he at least doesn’t sound like it. “ _Sir makes certain that all those connected to the Avengers have devices that cannot be traced_.”

He lets out a soft breath in relief. “Good. Listen, is Stark around? We need to talk to him, kind of urgently.”

“ _One moment, please._ ”

Bucky stares out at the shapeless scenery while he waits. This far away from any kind of urbanisation, there’s not much to see but scrub, and without streetlights to guide the way, the land is nothing but indistinct blobs of black and indigo. He can’t shake the feeling they’re the only people around for miles and miles. It’s a lonely thought.

The truck swerves again, and he bites back a curse just as Jarvis speaks again. “ _Sir says he is currently indisposed. Would you like me to take a message, or must you speak with him regardless?”_

Bucky marvels at the way an AI can somehow manage to sound disapproving, though he’s sure it’s moreso directed at Stark, rather than Bucky. “Yeah- we gotta talk to him right now. Shit’s gone tits-up, and Darcy and I need a flight outta Mexico ASAP.”

“ _I will be certain to emphasise your urgency, sir._ ”

“Thanks J.”

In the distance, Bucky can just begin to see the hints of the nearest settlement- Ocampo. He glances at Darcy, worried. “Is there a way we can bypass the town?” he asks. Darcy glances over at him, biting her lip.

“I don’t know- maybe? But I haven’t been through there since we first came here.”

He purses his lips unhappily. “Damn.”

“It should be fine,” she says firmly. “You and Thor always took the SUV. They shouldn’t recognise Jane’s truck.”

He sighs heavily, anxiety churning in his gut. “Maybe you should pull over ‘til we sort this out.”

“No,” she says, shaking her head. “An unknown truck parked on the side of the road is more suspicious.”

His phone makes a click and Bucky straightens in his seat. “ _You better have a good reason for this, Barnes. It’s date night.”_

Bucky scowls. “Forget your fucking date night, Stark. We need evac, and we needed it two hours ago.”

Over the line, he hears Stark curse softly and Bucky feels vindictively pleased. “ _What’s happened?”_

“Someone sent a fucking _assassin_ after Jane and Thor, is what happened,” he growls. He doesn’t spend long wondering why he doesn’t want to say anything about Steve.

“ _Fucking Christ! You four don’t do anything in halves, do you?_ ”

“Stark,” he growls. “This is serious. Jane took a shot to the gut- Thor’s taken her to Asgard.”

“ _And you and Lewis? You’re okay?_ ”

“Yeah, we’re fine,” he lies. Darcy shoots him a disapproving glare.

“He stabbed Bucky in the shoulder,” she says, loud enough for the microphone to pick it up. He pulls a face at her.

“I’m _fine_ ,” he insists. “But we need to get out of here before whoever sent the assassin realises we’re still alive. Can you get us a ride?”

“ _Yeah, I’ll see what I can do_ ,” Stark says, and Bucky can’t help the wash of relief that floods through him. For all their problems, he knows from experience that the Stark’s always manage to pull through. “ _I’m locking into your location now._ ”

The lights of Ocampo grow bigger, and Darcy eases back on the speed as they approach the town. “Thanks. Are Natasha, Clint or Sam around? We need to talk to them.”

“No can do, Barnes,” Stark says, sounding almost _apologetic_. It’s a marvel. “ _Wilson and Romanoff are in DC on Shield business. Barton’s… somewhere. I think they sent him undercover about a week ago. Something about a circus? Why do you want to talk to them- I mean, don’t get me wrong, I’m flattered that I’m your first port of call in an emergency, but I don’t want to end up playing second fiddle to those three. You’ll give me a complex_.”

Bucky thinks if he rolls his eyes any harder they’d spin right to the back of his head. “The assassin- he said Shield sent him.”

There is a long pause over the phone. “ _That’s ridiculous_ ,” Stark says eventually. “ _Any self-respecting assassin would keep their employer quiet._ ”

“Yeah- unless that’s not really their employer.”

“ _Oh_ ,” Stark says, and Bucky can almost hear the pieces slot into place in his mind. “ _Ohhh. Oh yeah, that’s bad_.”

“Yeah. There’s a Shield facility in DC, isn’t there?”

“ _Ah- yeah, the Triskelion. Fury’s head of operations, when he’s not floating around on his Helicarrier._ ”

“His _what?_ No- you know what, that’s not important right now. We need to go there- I don’t trust Shield, but I _do_ trust those two. They’re the only people I know who could plug whatever problem this is.”

“ _Okay_ ,” Stark says, and Bucky praises the heavens above that he’s not kicking up more of a fuss. “ _Alright. I’ll see what I can do. I bought one of Shield’s old quinjets the other day- I’m in the process of stripping it, but it should still work fine, and Jarvis is already interfaced with the controls. He’ll fly it without trouble_.”

“Right.”

“ _I’ll send you the coordinates for pickup- just get yourself there within the next… oh lets say four hours, and J will be there to pick you up._ ”

He breathes out slowly, a little of the tension between his shoulders easing. Four hours is doable. “Alright. Thank-you for this.”

“ _It’s no problem_ ,” Stark says dismissively. He pauses, and the silence on the phone almost sounds hesitant. “ _I’m glad you’re both okay_ ,” he says slowly. Bucky smiles, though he know Stark can’t see it. “ _With any luck, this will blow over quickly enough… but in the meantime, it’s good to know neither of you have kicked the bucket_.”

“Thanks,” Bucky says wryly.

“ _Oh, and Barnes?”_

“Mm?”

“ _Make sure you get that shoulder looked at as soon as possible. The last thing any of us want is for you to keel over from an infection. It’d put all our hard work to waste._ ”

“Sure,” he says, more out of obligation to say something than an interest in doing what he says. With any luck, whatever serum he’s got running through his veins will fix any problems before they can compound themselves. “Will do.”

“ _Ah-huh_ ,” Stark says, and something in his voice makes Bucky think he sees straight through his empty promise. “ _Well anyway, I need to go. Gotta make sure you two won’t fall out of the sky… and something tells me I might want to make sure all the Tower’s security measures are up to scratch_.”

“Thank-you, Stark. Really.”

“ _Whatever, McFly. Keep Lewis safe, would you?”_

He glances over at Darcy. Her attention is- thankfully- focussed on the road- they’re in the town now, and she seems intent on not drawing attention to themselves. The edge of her face is lined with gold from the lights, and a cursory glance might think her calm and composed, but her fingers grip the wheel so tightly he can almost hear the rubberised surface squeak.

“Always,” he promises. And this time he means it.

 


	6. Chapter 6

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Darcy and Bucky meet up with some friends...

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So we are now officially beginning to venture into CATWS territory. As it stands, this fic isn't simply a play-by-play of the film. You'll see lines that are familiar to you, yes, but I've made sure to have dialogue and events reflect the character changes that have already been made. :)
> 
> Enjoy!

_June 9 th 2014_

 “Bucky.”

“Yeah?”

“Why didn’t you tell Tony about Steve?”

Bucky stares down at the mask in his lap. He’d picked it up as they were leaving, a last moment decision. The feel of it is strange; an unnerving mix of fabric and plastic, light and heavy all at once, and he can’t shake the feeling that it’s less of a mask and more of a muzzle. He runs a finger over the surface of it and imagines having to wear it, breath pressed hot and close against his face. Takes note of the strange woven texture of it. Wonders why Steve wore it. Wonders if he’s made to put it on, or if it’s his own choice.

He shudders.

“Bucky?” Darcy asks again, and he looks up, tearing himself from his thoughts. Darcy is huddled against him for warmth, and she smells faintly of dust and blood and coffee.

“I don’t know,” he says. The words take a great amount of effort to come to him, trapped in his throat and gluing his jaws shut. “It didn’t feel like something to just be told over the phone.”

“That makes sense, I guess,” she agrees, voice soft in the hush of the night. Above them, the sky is an endless stretch of indigo and silver, but for once, the sight makes him uneasy, rather than comforted. They’re sitting ducks out here, but there’s nowhere else to go; if the quinjet comes, they don’t have the luxury of making it wait for them to reach it.

“You should get some sleep,” Bucky says softly. “I’ll keep watch.”

Darcy stiffens against his side, and draws away. He mourns the loss of her warmth. “Hey- if anyone should get some sleep, it should be _you_.”

He huffs a soft laugh. “I’m not going to sleep any time soon, love.” She chews on her lip, looking doubtful and he smiles. “It’ll give you something to do. We’ve still got another three hours before the jet turns up.”

Darcy huffs. “Fine,” she says, and she spreads out on the tray of the truck, resting her head on his thigh, and Bucky discards the mask in favour of resting his hand on her soft hair. She huffs again, twisting too look up at him with exasperation. “You’re so predictable,” she accuses. He smiles at her helplessly. Still, she reaches up to pull her hair out of its ponytail, and Bucky threads his fingers through the smooth strands. “Ridiculous man.”

“You love me.”

“Fuck yeah I do,” she murmurs, humming happily as he rakes his nails across her scalp. “Especially when you do stuff like this.”

“You just want me for my head scratches.”

“It’s true,” she says lazily. “That and your ass.”

He laughs quietly to himself as she relaxes into his touch. “I love you.”

Darcy reaches up to wrap her fingers around his wrist and drags it down to press a soft kiss to his palm. The light puff of her breath against his skin tickles faintly. “I know,” she whispers. “Things will be okay, Buck. Just you wait.”

“Yeah,” he says faintly. “I know,”

He doesn’t quite believe her, but he’s trying.

 

* * *

 

The wet, rattling sound of Steve’s laboured breathing seems impossible loud inside their tiny apartment, echoing in Bucky’s chest like somehow he can steal Steve’s suffering, wear the mantle himself. He stares at the open doorway to their single bedroom, knowing that beyond it, Steve is slowly drowning in the fluid in his lungs, his skin burning hot with fever.

Sometimes he wonders what his life might have been like if he’d just left that skinny little boy with the fire in his eyes alone. Wonders if he’d be happy, or at least worry free, with a wife and a kid on the way. He’d probably end up in far less fights.

“He’ll pull through,” Becca tells him firmly. She sits opposite him at the table, a book clasped loosely in her hand. Bucky didn’t even hear her come in. “The doctor will be back in the morning- they’ll give him medicine and he’ll get better, just like he always does.”

He swallows. Becca is watching him with that canny look of hers, the one she uses when he’s being particularly dumb or obtuse. Her hazel eyes look almost golden in the lamplight, cheeks dimpling charmingly as she smiles at him in reassurance.

“I know.” Bucky lifts his shoulder and makes an attempt at a smile. What had started out as an innocuous cold yesterday had morphed into something far more sinister by the time he’d finished work today, and despite his tired, aching muscles, he’d still found it in him to fetch the doctor, and had resigned himself to another sleepless night. He tries not to think of how much it’s eaten away at their meagre savings. Again. “I just worry, you know.”

Becca slouches back into the chair, and Bucky grimaces at the ungraceful position. He doesn’t envy whoever her soulmate ends up being. “You worry far too much about that boy,” she says, not bothering to hide the faint hint of disapproval in her voice. “What good’s it done you?”

He glares. “Don’t talk about him like that.”

She shrugs, indifferent. “Mom worries- you know she thinks he’s a bad influence.”

Bucky huffs and rolls his eyes. “He ain’t a bad influence on anyone; Steve’s good through and through.”

“Mm,” she hums. Bucky doesn’t think she believes him, but he doesn’t have the energy nor the desire to argue about it whilst Steve struggles to breathe in the other room. “I just don’t understand why you fight so hard for him. He ain’t even your soulmate.”

“He’s my best friend,” Bucky says resolutely, choosing not to remind her that he doesn’t _have_ a soulmate. She knows better than to bring the topic up. “What else am I gonna do, let him die, just like his ma?”

She pulls a face, almost apologetically. “You know that’s not what I meant.”

He looks away. “Steve may be a punk, but he’s a good man, and I’ll always do what I can to keep his idiot ass around. He don’t deserve to die like this.”

“No one does.”

“No,” he agrees. “No one does. But least of all him.”

From the bedroom, Steve begins coughing and Bucky stands up, filling a glass with water. Becca stands up too, dusting down the front of her skirt.

“I’d better get going before it gets too late,” she says. She steps over to him to kiss his cheek. “I’ll see you later. Give Steve my best.”

“Sure,” he murmurs. Steve’s coughing turns into a painful hacking sound, as though trying to cough out a lung. “Say hi to ma for me.”

“Sure,” Becca echoes, and she leaves. Bucky hurries into the other room, where Steve lies on his side, propped up on an elbow as he coughs into his handkerchief, skin sweaty and flushed. Bucky kneels down beside his bed and sets the glass down on the bedside table while he waits Steve’s coughing out.

“You alright?” he asks, somewhat helplessly when the coughing subsides. Steve glares at him balefully.

“Feel like hell warmed over,” he groans. Bucky wordlessly holds out the glass, and Steve takes it from him with hands that tremble. He manages only a small sip before he starts coughing again and Bucky plucks the glass from his grip before he can spill it over himself. “Christ,” Steve gasps, collapsing onto the bed. “Knew I shouldn’t have stayed out that long.”

Bucky smiles, trying for reassuring. “Doctor Davies came over while you were out. Said he’d be over again in the morning with some medicine.”

“Mm,” Steve sighs, eyes falling shut momentarily. The skin beneath his eyes is a bruised purple colour, so fragile Bucky thinks a single touch might tear it. “That who were you talking to?”

“Naw. He left about an hour ago. Becca was over.”

“Yeah?” Steve’s voice picks up at the mention of Bucky’s younger sister and he rolls eyes at the man.

“She says she hopes you get well soon,” he tells him. Steve smiles, almost dreamily. So much for being over that crush of his.  

“It must be late,” Steve rasps, glancing out the door- the clock is in the kitchen, out of sight. “You should get some sleep, Buck.”

“Yeah, yeah,” Bucky says dismissively. “I’ll get around to it.”

“Really,” Steve insists. “I’ll be fine. It ain’t even that bad this time, honest.”

Bucky glares at him, unimpressed. “I’ll go to bed when I feel like it, punk. I ain’t a kid no more.”

Steve snorts with laughter, and it transforms quickly into another round of coughing. Bucky holds out the glass of water again, and Steve accidently knocks it from his hand as he tries to reach for it, spilling water all over Bucky’s trousers. “Aw Steve,” he complains, plucking at the sodden wool. “These were my only clean pair left.”

“Don’t worry, Mr Barnes,” an accented voice says above him, and Bucky looks up, startled, but his movements are restricted by something wrapped around his chest and arms. “This will only hurt a little.”

Zola smiles down at his beatifically, but his eyes are cold. Fear surges through Bucky’s veins, gaze catching on the way the light reflects off the scientist’s syringe, filled with some kind of strange, blue substance.

“No –no!” he cries out, tugging at his restraints desperately, trying to get away from him. “How- how did you get here?” Where’s Steve? Where did he go? He was just there!

Zola tuts in disapproval. “You really should relax, Sergeant. Results have shown that a state of relaxation is favourable for initial survival.”

“Survival?” Bucky asks helplessly. The syringe draws ever closer, but if anything his restraints grow tighter as his struggles. “What the fuck? Don’t you fucking _touch_ me!”

His eyes land on another figure, standing in the far corner of the lab. Bucky’s eyes widen. “Steve? Steve!”

Steve stares down at him expressionlessly as Bucky struggles and Zola laughs at him, his thick, round glasses glinting sinisterly. “There is no one here to save you,” the disgusting little man sneers, and he grabs Bucky’s forearm, pressing it down firmly against the table.

Steve is mouthing something, but he makes no sound. “I don’t understand,” Bucky cries out. He feels the sharp pinprick of the needle as Zola inserts it into the crease of his elbow. “Steve. _Steve!_ What are you saying?”

Bucky’s body seizes as the liquid flows through him, burning, _burning, setting him aflame_ , and he cries out helplessly, his gaze still pinned on Steve, still trying to speak to him.

It looks like-

_It looks like-_

“Bucky!”

He gasps, body still stuck in the throes of a convulsion as he wakes. Darcy stares down at him, eyes wide and scared as she grips his shoulder. “It’s okay,” she says softly. “It was just a nightmare.”

“Darcy,” he rasps. His heart hammers in his chest and his limbs feel oddly light as the adrenalin begins to ebb. “What…”

“You were having a nightmare,” she says again. He closes his eyes and sighs, head thunking back against the padded bench.

“Damn,” he sighs. “Perfect timing.”

“Right?” She smiles at him uncertainly. “You were- um- calling out his name.”

Bucky flinches, looking away. “Sorry.”

Darcy shakes her head. “You don’t have to apologise for that.” She glances over to the cockpit. “Jarvis says we’re almost there, by the way. We’ll be landing in about five minutes.”

He breathes out slowly, and pushes himself up into a sitting position. His head feels much better than it did four hours ago, but his shoulder still hurts like a bitch. “Where are we going?”

She shrugs. “Some park, apparently. Jarvis says Tony’s got a car waiting for us there. We’re only a few miles away from Sam’s apartment, so it won’t be hard to drive there.”

Bucky nods, hoping that means Darcy will start driving like a sane person. He kind of doubts it. “What’s the time?”

“About four-forty. The sun rises soon, so we’ll want to get out of there before the joggers start turning up.”

“Sure,” he says absently. He stands up, gathering their gear together; Darcy had left most of the food behind on the truck, but there’s a box of granola bars that he tears into ravenously while they wait. His ears pop as Jarvis takes them down, and he’s reminded of the elevator in the Tower. It’s no wonder Tony wanted one, the quinjet is _fast_.

They stand in the cockpit as Jarvis brings them down to land, and watch as the lights in the park draw into focus, the empty jungle gym and trees growing larger as they approach.

“This must be really weird for anyone to see,” Bucky remarks. Darcy snorts in amusement beside him.

“The quinjet is currently cloaked, Sergeant Barnes,” Jarvis pipes up to correct him. “To the naked eye, its presence is almost invisible.”

“Huh,” he says. “That’s… pretty neat.”

“Indeed,” Jarvis confirms. “Shield pioneered the technology several years ago…  Sir was quite put out to realise he had not been the one to develop it.”

Darcy cackles at the admission. “Oh boy, I bet Tony was _pissed!_ ”

“He was,” Jarvis says, a hint of amusement in his artificial voice. Bucky shares a grin with her. “And rather surprised. Sir likes to pretend he is the only one able to create technological marvels.”

They snicker. “Where is the lie,” Darcy laughs.

Around them, the quinjet shudders lightly as it lands, and the two of them move over to their bags; Bucky grips the duffle full of weapons tightly, and Darcy slings the backpack full of clothes over her shoulder. The door opens slowly, and they stagger out of the jet with a string of profuse thank-you’s to Jarvis.

“It was my pleasure,” Jarvis says as they exit, and the doors close up quickly behind them. Bucky stares at the jet in awe as it begins to rise, its shape shivering, barely discernible in the dark.

“Wow,” he says lowly. “He wasn’t kidding, was he?”

“Yeah. Shield manages to pump out some pretty impressive tech,” Darcy hums. She stares down at her phone, frowning as she glances around them to orientate herself. “I think the car’s over there.” She points to their left, and Bucky lets her lead the way. His boots crunch on the woodchip in the jungle gym, and just beyond it is a carpark where there is, indeed, a car parked. They breathe a sigh of relief at the sight, and Darcy runs ahead to check it out.

“Tony said they’d leave the key behind the front left wheel,” she says, dropping down on all fours to reach behind the wheel. She grins in satisfaction and drags out a key, holding it out to him in victory. “God I love that man.”

He smirks. “Don’t let Stark hear that.”

“Hell _no_. His ego’s bloated enough already. No need to blow it up any further; his head would probably pop.”

Bucky snickers at the mental image as she straightens and unlocks the car with a press of a button. “I know a few people who’d probably pay good money to see that.”

“Mm. Myself included,” Darcy hums, opening the trunk and dumping the backpack and bag of food inside. Bucky’s bag doesn’t join it; he takes it into the passenger seat with him, unwilling to discard the weapons, even though logically, he knows they’re safe.

(For now.)

Darcy slides into the driver’s seat and fiddles with the mirrors and the GPS on her phone, setting it carefully on the dash with the directions to Sam’s apartment. “You should probably give him a call,” she says as she turns on the car; it comes to life silently; the only sign that it’s even running are the lights that suddenly illuminate the park. On the horizon, Bucky can just make out the first hints of sunrise, and he pulls out his phone. After some cursing at the car’s unfamiliar controls, Darcy puts the vehicle into reverse and he selects Sam’s cell number.

It almost rings out before someone finally picks up.

“ _Hello_?” a sleep-roughened voice sounds. Bucky cringes.

“That you, Wilson?”

There’s a pause over the line, and Bucky imagines him pulling back the phone to see who he’s actually talking to. “ _Barnes_?” Sam finally asks, incredulous. “ _Do know that the fucking time is?”_

He cringes again. “Yeah, it’s-” he glances at the clock on the dash, “four forty-five. Sorry about that, but look, we need a place to crash.”

“ _What do you mean ‘you need a place to crash?_ ” Sam says. He sounds disgruntled. Bucky makes a mental note to make a stop at a convenience store to pick up some donuts as a peace offering. “ _Aren’t you in fucking Mexico?_ ”

“Yeah… about that… look, I don’t really want to talk about it over the phone. It’s probably safer to talk at yours.”

“ _Safer_?” Sam parrots, sounding more alert now. “ _Fuck man, what the hell have you lot gotten yourselves into?_ ”

“I don’t half know myself,” he sighs. “We’re still kind of working on that. We’re about ten minutes from your place, but can you call Natasha and see if she’ll meet us at yours?”

He hears a faint murmur of voices, and then someone else is speaking. “ _That won’t be a problem_ ,” Natasha says calmly, and Bucky almost drops his phone in surprise. Christ, _that_ must be new. “ _But if you don’t have a good reason for interrupting my morning, I will end you._ ”

“… We’ll bring over some coffee and donuts?”

“ _Make mine a mocha quad grande, one pump chocolate, one pump cinnamon. Sam will have a flat white_.”

Over the phone, Bucky hears an exasperated ‘oh I will, will I?’. He glances across at Darcy warily, wishing she’d heard Natasha’s order; something tells him forgetting it is not in his best interests. “Uh, right.”

“ _You’ll work it out Barnes,_ ” Natasha drawls. He hears Sam laugh at him. “ _We’ll see you soon_.” And with that, she hangs up. Bucky drops his phone into his lap, staring at it in mute shock.

“What?” Darcy asks, glancing at him as they pull up to a red light. “Are we good? Sam’s at his place, right?”

“Ah… yeah, we’re fine. He’s good to see us…. Did you know him and Natasha were a thing?”

“They’re _what?_ ” She stares at him, eyes a little on the wild side. The lights turn green and she takes off a little too enthusiastically. “I _can’t believe_ she’s finally banging him and she didn’t tell me! I thought we were friends! You just wait ‘til I see her- I’ll wring her perfect fucking neck!”

“Good luck with that,” he laughs. “I guess she’s kind of a private person.”  He glances back down at his phone and frowns. “Um… by the way… is there such thing as a twenty-four hour Starbucks?”

 

* * *

 

_June 10 th 2014_

Twenty-four hour coffee shops _are_ apparently a thing, and wonder of wonders, Wilson is lucky enough to live _reasonably_ close to one. The barista’s face when he made the order had been appropriately scathing, but Bucky is more than willing to throw the guy under the bus if it turns out wrong, because he is _really_ not in shape to be going up against a wrathful Black Widow.

He carries their tray of coffees carefully up the stairs to Sam’s apartment, wondering why- in this era of wonder and technology and technological wonders- the building doesn’t have a fucking elevator. Natasha has the door open for them before Darcy even has a chance to knock, and she plucks the coffees out of Bucky’s hand and promptly shuts the door in their faces.

“Um,” Bucky says, sharing a bewildered look with Darcy. They hear the exasperated sound of Sam’s voice, and the door swings open again. “Two of those were ours.”

“Sorry,” Sam says, looking over them shrewdly. His gaze lingers on Bucky’s sling, eyes widening is mute surprise. “Nat isn’t really a morning person.”

“I gathered.”

Sam frowns, peering around like he’s looking for something. “Where are the other two? Are Jane and Thor in your car?”

“It’s just us,” Darcy says tiredly. “Can we come in? Rather not explain ourselves out here in the hall.”

“Right,” he says slowly, looking confused and uneasy. He steps away from the door and they stumble inside. Sam’s apartment smells sweet- like cinnamon and vanilla, and the scent is so incongruous with the man that Bucky is blind-sided by it. He looks around at the open-plan living area- a familiar mix of impersonal modern furniture and obviously loved records and books. A picture of Sam’s family sits beside the tv; on the other side, there’s a picture of Sam and another man, the pair of them grinning wickedly into the camera. Bucky doesn’t think he’s ever seen Sam pull an expression like that before, and he doesn’t need to ask to know that the man is Riley, Sam’s soulmate.

“Nice place,” Darcy says beside him, and she lets her bags fall to the floor. Bucky puts the duffle beside them with a little more care, and Sam frowns at it when the weapons inside clatter suspiciously. “You’re not bugged, are you?”

Sam’s frown grows deeper. He opens his mouth, but Natasha beats him to it. “He’s not,” she confirms. “Anymore. I checked.”

Sam twists to stare at his maybe-lover incredulously. “What do you mean, ‘anymore’?”

Natasha smiles at him beatifically. She leans against the breakfast bar, an image of refined nonchalance as she sips her coffee. “You know exactly what I mean. Shield likes to keep tabs on their assets. They used to try doing the same to me, once upon a time.”

He shakes his head, shoulders slumping. “You know what- I don’t even wanna know.” Natasha holds out his coffee for him and he takes it begrudgingly. “Remind me again why I still work for them?”

“They have great dental.”

“True,” Sam concedes. Natasha smiles at smugly, and the pair of them return their attentions back to Bucky and Darcy, still standing beside their bags. “So, why are you here?”

Darcy smirks at him and cocks an eyebrow. “What, don’t want us here?” she drawls. Bucky huffs in exasperation and elbows her in the side.

“Someone masquerading as Shield sent an assassin to try and kill Jane,” he says, intent on getting straight to the point. Their response is instantaneous, the pair of the drawing to attention, gazes turning sharp and focussed.

“Did they succeed?” Natasha asks, her voice suspiciously blank.

He shakes his head. “He- the assassin shot her in the stomach. I managed to distract him long enough for Thor to get her to Asgard. She should be okay.”

Her shoulders slump almost imperceptibly. “Explain,” she orders, and she motions to the sofa. Bucky and Darcy collapse into it gratefully, though he fears he’ll never manage to get out, exhaustion settling deep in his bones.

He lets Darcy tell the story, her voice warm and clear, washing over him comfortingly as he sips at his coffee, and only takes over when she stumbles over the part about Steve, unsure if she should tell them.

“You recognised him?” Natasha asks sharply, when he says as much. He nods.

“Steve,” he says bitterly, staring up at the ceiling. “It was Steve.”

“I- you mean Steve _Rogers?_ ” Sam asks in disbelief. “Are you- you’re telling me that Steve Rogers, _the first Captain America_ , is somehow still alive, and attempted to assassinate Foster, possibly inciting a future war between Earth and Asgard?”

“Well when you say it like that...”

Sam sits back into his seat, floored. “What the fuck, man.”

“He could have been a clone,” Natasha murmurs. Bucky shakes his head.

“It’s him. He didn’t recognise me, but- it was Steve.”

“If he was a clone, you wouldn’t be able to tell the difference.”

“It’s Steve,” he insists, growing annoyed again. “I know what I saw- I just _know_ it’s him, alright? I don’t know how, but somehow he’s still alive, and he doesn’t- he _doesn’t_ _remember me._ ”

The room falls quiet, the four of them digesting various pieces of information. Bucky can’t shake the image of Steve, desperate and angry when Bucky had tried to hold him back. The effortless way he’d tossed his knife into his free hand and plunged it into Bucky’s shoulder. Any lower and he’d have died, he knows.

“There are ways to make people forget,” Natasha says abruptly, and Bucky glances up at her, surprised. She glares at him. “I’m _not_ saying he’s Rogers…. But it _is_ possible. But you need to understand, the kind of things that need to be done to manage it… you don’t come out unscathed.”

Bucky watches her, wondering if she’s talking from experience. Natasha holds his gaze, but her face is an impenetrable fortress, holding bay her thoughts. He wonders what kind of things she’s talking about. What’s happened to Steve- what’s been done to him to make him forget Bucky. It had always been Bucky and Steve, ever since they were kids… to think that someone just ripped the memories- ripped _Steve-_ out of there breaks his heart.

Darcy glances at him, and reaches out to squeeze his thigh in comfort. “We came to you, Sam, because we figured you’d be able to get in contact with Fury. Shield needs to know what’s happened, but if there’s a leak…”

“You want to keep it quiet,” Sam finishes for her. “I get it. I’ll see what I can do. In the meantime, you’re both free to crash here.”

She smiles gratefully. “Thank-you,” she says. Sam’s attention turns to Bucky.

“Do you need to get that looked at?” he asks, concerned.

Bucky grimaces, but not in pain. Since he’d woken this morning, the pain’s receded to a sharp ache, whatever serum is pumping through his veins working to fix the damage. “I probably should,” he says. Sam stands.

“I’ll check it out,” he says, beckoning for Bucky to join him. He heaves himself off the sofa with much regret, and follows Sam through to the bathroom.

Sam motions for him to sit down on the toilet and pulls a large first aid kit from beneath the sink. “Shirt off,” he orders, voice clipped and precise and Bucky finds himself complying without question, too weary to argue. His fingers fumble awkwardly with the buttons towards the bottom of the shirt, but he manages, and Sam helps him take his arm out of the sling and pry the piece of clothing off. Sam nods approvingly at Darcy’s bandages and begins to unwrap them, his touch gentle but brisk and impersonal.

He whistles lowly when he’s finished. “Shit, man,” he says. “He stuck you good.” Bucky spares his shoulder a glance- Darcy’s stiches are messy and ugly, but good enough for his body to start fixing the damage. The skin around the wound is red and crusty, but he doesn’t think it looks infected, which is a miracle and a relief.

“I think it glanced off the bone,” he says, looking away as Sam begins to clean it. He tries not to think about his fear that Steve had meant to kill him, rather than distract him.

“It looks like it,” Sam murmurs. “It’s strange though… it almost looks like…” he trails off. Bucky avoids his stare. He knows what he’s thinking. _It looks like it’s a few days old_.

Sam straightens. Clears his throat awkwardly. “You know what- it doesn’t matter,” he says firmly, and some of the tension eases from Bucky’s shoulders. “It doesn’t look infected- that’s the most important thing.”

Bucky smiles in gratitude, and neither speak as Sam continues to work. His ministrations are careful and self-assured, and Bucky lets himself fade out, mind blank. When Natasha knocks at the door, he jolts in surprise, glancing up like he’s forgotten there are even other people in the apartment.

“Sorry to interrupt,” she says dryly. “But we’re needed. The Lemurian Star’s been hijacked.”

Sam frowns at her. “Lemurian Star… that’s a research vessel, isn’t it?”

“Not quite.” Bucky tries not to shift self-consciously as Natasha’s gaze runs over his bared torso appreciatively. “It’s a mobile satellite launch platform.”

“That’s a mouthful.”

“A touch.” The pair share a smile that makes Bucky feel very much like a third wheel. “Pirates took control of the ship about ten minutes ago. Fury wants us and STRIKE to retake it.”

“Damn,” Sam breathes. He glances back at Bucky, bandages only half finished. “Interesting timing,” he notes. The corner of Natasha’s lips twitch.

“Could just be a coincidence,” she says, and honestly it’s the least likely thing Bucky ever thought he’d hear coming from her. She always gives the impression she’s the kind of woman who has contingencies for her contingencies. Certainly not someone who’d put any stock into ‘coincidences’.

“They do seem unrelated,” Sam admits. Her lips twitch again.

“Best not to assume otherwise.”

“No.” He nods to Bucky. “Give me five minutes.”

“Sure,” she purrs, and leaves the room. Bucky bites back a grin at Sam’s lax expression.

“You know how to pick ‘em, Wilson,” he says. His stitches itch beneath the bandages, but he restrains himself from scratching at them. Sam turns back to him, shaking his head.

“Barnes, my man, you have no fucking idea.” And bless him, but his voice sounds awed. Bucky understands the sentiment all too well.

 

* * *

 

_June 11 th 2014_

Sam tosses the flash drive onto Fury’s desk. He’s torn between anger, irritation and exasperation. Fury watches him impassively- a vision in pristine black leather- and Sam feels every inch of his sweaty, dusty, _salt_ -encrusted suit against his skin. His lip curls angrily.

“Every time,” he growls. “ _Every time_ I think I’ve got the hang of this, you go and move the bar.”

“Captain Wilson, a pleasure as always. Why don’t you sit down?”

Sam sits, more out of habit than a desire to follow the man’s orders. His back is taught and straight, and he sits at the edge of the chair, poised to jump up at a moment’s notice. “What was Natasha sent to retrieve?”

Director Fury remains quiet, gaze unwavering. Sam tries _very_ hard to stop himself from launching himself over Fury’s shiny glass desk and give him a whole new reason to wear an eyepatch. “You just can’t stop yourself from lying, can you?”

“I didn’t lie,” Fury says coolly. “Agent Romanoff had a different mission than yours.”

“What was so important about that intel that you saw fit not to tell me? With all due respect, _sir_ , I can’t lead a mission when the people I’m meant to be leading have missions of their own.”

“It’s called compartmentalisation. Nobody spills the secrets because nobody knows them.”

His hands curl into fists against his knees. “Except you, right?”

The room falls quiet, and Sam gets the impression they’re stuck in some kind of stalemate. This- _this-_ is _exactly_ why he had been reluctant to join Shield. Fucking _spies_. Half the time Sam isn’t sure if Fury even sees him as an asset, or just an acquisition. Useful when it suits him, worse than useless when it doesn’t. God… if Riley could see him now… he’d have laughed him straight back home.

 _What are you doing playin’ dressups Wilson? They’re playin’ you for a fool_.

He’s half-prepared to get up and leave when Fury finally speaks up. “You’re wrong about me, Wilson.” He pushes a tablet across the desk towards Sam, the screen lighting up beneath his touch. “I _do_ share. I’m nice like that.”

Sam regards the tablet in front of him with thinly veiled suspicion. The corner of Fury’s lip twitches; the movement is achingly familiar- Natasha does the same thing when she’s amused. He takes it just so he doesn’t have to look at the Director, and sets it in his lap. _Finally,_ he thinks to himself. Fury leans back in his seat, looking satisfied, as Sam flicks through what looks like the schematics for a Helicarrier. A strange, heady mix of awe and horror fills him as he goes over it. The specs on it… 

He looks up. “What the hell is this?”

“ _That_ , is Project Insight,” Fury explains. “Three next-generation helicarriers, synched to a network of targeting satellites.”

 _Targeting satellites_ , Sam mouths to himself. “The Lemurian Star.”

Fury nods. “Once they’re up in the air, they never need to come down.” He smirks, looking pleased with himself. “In less than a month, we’ll have continuous suborbital flight, courtesy of our new repulsor engines.”

“Stark? He’s in on this?”

Fury shrugs. “He had a few suggestions once he got an up-close look our old turbines. These new long range precision guns can eliminate a thousand hostiles a minute. The satellites can read a terrorist’s DNA before he steps outside his hidey-hole. We’re gonna neutralise a lot of threats before they even happen.”

Sam feels sick to his stomach. _Wrong_ , his mind screams at him. _This is so wrong._ Has Fury never even _seen_ a sci-fi thriller before? Everything about this project screams ‘BAD IDEA’ in flashing neon lights. “I thought the punishment usually came _after_ the crime,” he says, mouth dry. “Innocent until proven guilty.”

Fury’s gaze turns hard. It’s obvious to Sam that he’s displeased with his reaction. _What did he expect?_ “We can’t afford to wait that long,” he says flatly. “You think the Battle of Manhattan is the only global threat we’re likely to face? New York showed us we needed a quantum surge in threat analysis. For once we’re way ahead of the curve.”

Sam places the tablet back down on the desk with careful, deliberate movements. _Does Natasha know?_ he wonders, and can’t stop himself from hoping she doesn’t.

 _Compartmentalisation_ , Fury’s voice echoes in his head like a curse _._

“Director, I joined Shield because I believed in protecting this world. In ensuring its freedom. But this… this isn’t freedom. This is fear.”

“Shield takes the world as it is, not as we’d like it to be,” Fury says, eye narrowed. “It’s getting damn near past time for you to get with that program, _Captain_.” His glare is pointed. _Don’t forget,_ it says, _we made you_. _We carved you from nothing and made you into a weapon_. _You owe us._

Sam’s chair scrapes against the tiles loudly as he stands. His fists clench tightly to hide how they shake as he sneers down at the Director with a burning and righteous fury. “Don’t hold your breath.”

He stalks towards the door, but pauses at the threshold, the image of Darcy and Bucky standing bloody and tired at his front door clear in his mind’s eye. Sam may _viciously_ disagree with Fury’s pet project, but he’s still fairly certain he can trust the man. Certainly, he can’t see him being interested in inciting a war with Asgard. “By the way,” he grits out. “My sister and her new man are in town for the next couple of days. You’d like him- he’s _real_ old-fashioned. I’m sure they’d be real _thrilled_ to meet you.”

The Director blinks at him, but gives no outward impression that he understands Sam’s heavily coded lie. “I’ll see if I can fit them in,” he says. Sam nods tightly, satisfied enough with his answer. He catches Fury toying with the flash drive as he leaves, and spitefully hopes it’s filled with nothing but useless information.


	7. Chapter 7

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Just an FYI: this doesn’t take place in the same setting as it does in CATWS. That is; Sam DOES NOT have the same apartment that Steve does.

_June 11 th 2014_

Sam returns in the late hours of the morning, tired and weary. Bucky watches him carefully as he walks gracelessly through his apartment and collapses into the sofa with a heartfelt groan.

“Rough night?” Darcy asks from the kitchen, coffee mug in hand. The skin beneath her eyes looks bruised; neither of them slept well last night, too accustomed to sleeping through the day to manage, despite their exhaustion.

“Yes,” Sam sighs, eyes slipping closed. “And morning. And I’m sick of damn spies and their secrets.”

Bucky raises an eyebrow. “That must be tough, all things considered.” Sam’s eyes open in suspicious slits, as though daring him to comment on his apparent relationship with Natasha. Bucky shrugs. “I mean- considering you work for what is in essence a global spy agency.”

Sam pulls a face. “God- don’t remind me.”

“Mm,” Darcy hums. “Coffee?”

He sighs. “I shouldn’t. I should really sleep, but…”

“Too wired?”

Sam groans again and scrubs at his face. “Yeah. Still angry too.”

“Do you wanna talk about it?” Bucky asks carefully. Sam grimaces, looking away guiltily.

“I can’t” he confesses. “I want to. _Christ,_ I want to. But you both know what Shield’s like. My hands are tied.”

“Spies will be spies.”

“Yeah,” Sam says in resignation. “I don’t think that’ll ever change, no matter the playing field.” He toes off his boots and Bucky covers his nose as the smell of sweaty, unwashed feet reaches him. Sam sends him the finger. “It’s my apartment, man,” he says. “Deal.”

“Did you talk to Fury?” Darcy asks. Her voice is measured and careful, gaze stuck on her coffee.

Sam nods. “Yeah- obliquely. I think he got the message though.”

Bucky’s gut tenses. It’s a risk, he knows, to trust anyone they don’t know at Shield with this, and Bucky hasn’t seen the Director since his first few weeks here. For all they know, they might be wrong about the whole thing, and it could have been Shield all along. And it’s a _huge_ risk, letting people know that he and Darcy are still alive. The more he thinks about it- the more he stews on the last two days- the more certain he is that he and Darcy weren’t meant to be left alive.

The possibility turns his stomach. To think that Steve Rogers- the stupid punk who’d stick his teeth into something and dig in deep; who’d never hesitate to defend the defenceless; who’d rained his righteous fury down on those that deserved it- had somehow been… been _corrupted_ into that desperate shell of man who’d shot an unarmed man and woman at close range without a second thought… it breaks Bucky’s heart all over again.

_What happened to you, Steve? Who took you- so shiny and gold- and twisted you into something rotten?_

As though sensing Bucky’s thoughts, Sam smiles at him with sympathy. “I didn’t tell him about your friend,” he says. “I barely even talked about _you._ I figured it wouldn’t have been the best of ideas.”

He smiles weakly. “Thanks.”

“Don’t mention it, man. Chances are he won’t even turn up. He’s a busy guy.”

“No,” Darcy says decisively, “he’ll come. If you even hinted at Bucky, he’ll come.”

Sam shrugs. “If you say so.” He stands up with a weary groan. “I’m gonna get some shut-eye.”

“Goodnight,” Bucky says automatically. Sam grimaces and looks pointedly out the window, where sunlight streams through the blinds.

“I think that ship sailed a few hours ago,” he notes dryly. Bucky shrugs.

“Sleep well then, asshole.”

Sam snorts and shakes his head, flipping him the bird again as he walks away. “Natasha’ll be over in the afternoon. There’s Netflix on the tv if you can work it out, gramps.”

“You’re older than me, you realise.”

“Fuck, don’t remind me,” he sighs, and he slips down the hall into his bedroom. The door closes behind him with a gently _click_.

Darcy comes down to join Bucky on the sofa, somehow managing to snuggle in close without spilling a drop of her coffee. “Pass me the remote?”

He complies silently and she murmurs back her thanks. As she flips the tv on and pulls up Netflix with the ease only those of her generation can truly master, Bucky can’t shake the feeling that they should be doing something.

 

* * *

 

The knock on the door at eleven-thirty that night comes as something of a surprise.

The four of them share a look of trepidation, though they have some idea of who it might be. Bucky can’t help but feel relieved; they’ve been trying to get their heads around a plan of attack (for containing the leak in Shield, finding Steve and preventing a possible war between Shield and Asgard) for the past several hours, but with no idea who Steve works for- if he works for anyone in the first place- they’re hard-pressed coming up with an easy solution to their problems.

“Fury, do you think?” Darcy asks quietly, all four of them staring at Sam’s front door.

Sam stands silently, gun in hand, and stalks towards the door. He peers through the peephole, and the rest of them let out a collective sigh of relief when he lets the gun drop. The door swings open with a soft _creak_ , and Fury stumbles through.

The room draws a collective breath. Fury looks like he’s been drawn through the ringer, dried blood crusted on his face from various lacerations and he favours his left arm, like it’s broken. He holds up a hand before any of them can speak. “I brought wine,” he says, voice giving away no hint of his discomfort.

Fury’s sharp gaze lands on the rest of them immediately, and he moves across the apartment quickly, standing conspicuously out of sight from the windows. “A pleasure to see you again, Miss Wilson.” he directs his greeting at Darcy, and Bucky shares a confused glance between each other. “And this must be your new man.”

“Director,” Darcy starts, but Fury holds up his hand again. Leans tiredly against the wall and holds up his phone.

 _EARS EVERYWHERE,_ it says in block lettering. The four of them stiffen at the implication. Bucky glances around uneasily, whatever sense of safety he’s managed to maintain dissipating like smoke on the wind.

Fury takes back his phone, typing as he speaks. “I can’t stay long,” he says calmly. Bucky tries desperately to school his expression, panic slowly rising. “My wife’s kicked me out- too many late nights in a row.” He holds up his phone again.

Bucky’s heart stutters in his chest, ears ringing.

_INSIGHT ON HOLD. SHIELD COMPROMISED._

“I didn’t know you had a wife,” Sam says, the picture of casual interest.

“You don’t know a lot of things about me.”

Sam glances over to the three of them, poised uneasily on the sofa. “Who else knows about your wife?”

Fury types again. _YOU AND ME._ “Just my friends.”

Sam’s brows rise. “Is that what we are?”

Fury opens his mouth to speak, and a pair of guttural _THWOMB_ ’S comes out, the wall exploding behind him. He cries out in pain and collapses to the ground and Darcy shrieks in shock. Bucky jumps to his feet as Sam drags the man out of the sight, Fury groaning with agony. Through the window, Bucky catches the briefest flicker of movement- a flash of something familiar- on the opposite building.

His heart freezes in his chest.

 _No_ , he thinks. _Not again_.

Natasha and Darcy throw themselves down beside Fury, and Natasha pulls out her phone from the inside pocket of her jacket. She pulls up Shield on speed dial. “Foxtrot is down, two GSW’s to the chest and abdomen. I need EMT’s!”

Bucky hesitates where he stands, staring down at the two women. Fury is murmuring something to Darcy, and palms something small and white into her shaking hand. She shoves it down her shirt with a grave nod, and turns to help Natasha, pressing down on Fury’s wounds with fierce determination and for the second time in less than forty-eight hours Bucky is assaulted by the sight of his soulmate covered in someone else’s blood. The image reminds him acutely of the war; care-worn women in dirty shifts elbow deep in blood, stitching men together in the vain hope they’ll make it out alive. Bucky knew they were far braver than he.

Almost against his will, his gaze strays back to the window. Steve- if that’s who it really is- is nowhere in sight, and whatever hesitation he’d felt before is gone, replaced with a burning need to _find him_.

Without a word, he snatches on of the spare pistols and launches himself out the window and onto the fire escape. The old metal rumbles warningly beneath his feet, but Bucky throws himself off the escape onto the next building over, scrambling for purchase. His heart hammers in his chest, and behind him he can hear Sam call out his name, but Bucky ignores him, clambering up the fire escape two steps at a time, the vibrating metal ringing in his ears. At the last floor, he jumps up, pulling himself up onto the roof with an ease that can only be found from that damn serum.

The roof is empty, the only hint of someone even being there a few empty cartridges.

“Shit,” he curses. He jogs over to the other side of the building, but it’s undisturbed, and the last building on the block, nothing close enough for Steve to jump to. “ _Shit!_ ”

He’s gone.

 _A ghost_ , his mind whispers. Bucky ignores it; the wound in his shoulder- which, _wow_ , he is _seriously_ regretting his attempt at heroics now because _holy fucking shit that hurts_ \- is certainly real enough. He stands at the edge of the building, staring out at the light below, searching for something- _anything-_ that could hint towards Steve, but there’s nothing. Nothing but the growing wail of ambulance sirens and the ragged sound of his breathing.

The sound of pounding footsteps reaches his ringing ears and Bucky glances back, startled, but it’s only Sam. “Fuck’s sake, man,” he snaps, looking far more put together than Bucky feels. He’s not even out of breath. Not for the first time, he wonders if Sam’s got the same serum running through his veins.

“He’s gone,” Bucky says dully. Sam glares at him.

“You don’t say.”

“Fury?”

“The EMT’s are on their way.” Sam looks over Bucky with undisguised concern. “Your shoulder’s bleeding,” he notes. Bucky glances down; blood blossoms from his shirt like a macabre flower.

“I think I tore Darcy’s stitches,” he says.

“And after all our hard work,” Sam sighs. “You have a damn death wish or something? What if he’d been waiting for you?”

“He wasn’t.”

“Yes, I can _see_ that.” Sam claps him on his good shoulder, but the movement reverberates through his wound and Bucky flinches away. Sam looks unrepentant. “You need to pull yourself out of whatever… _this_ is, man. There’s more riding on you than just your need to find your friend.”

“… Darcy,” Bucky murmurs guiltily, his mouth dry. Sam nods.

“And me. And Natasha. I’ve got a feeling the next few days are gonna get real ugly, Barnes. I need you- need you to do what needs to be done to keep them- keep us- safe.”

“But… he’s my friend.”

“Maybe seventy years ago he was,” Sam says solemnly. There’s something in his eyes that makes Bucky looks away. Something sad. “But whoever he used to be… the guy he is now… I don’t the he’s the kind you save. He’s the kind you stop.”

“I know,” Bucky says eventually, hearing the truth in Sam’s words.

The admission feels like a condemnation.

 

* * *

 

_June 12 th 2014_

Sam arrives at the hospital twenty minutes after Fury is taken in. The nurse at the front desk recognises him immediately, much to his surprise, and gives him directions for where to find the Director before he can even ask.

“Your partner told me you’d be here soon,” she explains without prompting. “She was quite insistent about it,” she notes, looking faintly irritated. Her gaze keeps turning impatiently to her computer and he imagines there are more pressing things she’d rather do. Sam gives her a grateful smile and leaves with a soft ‘thank-you’. He follows the carelessly scrawled directions and ends up in a room with a large glass viewing window. Natasha is already inside, and she turns to look at him, the only break in her cool exterior a familiar tightening around the mouth.

He joins her without comment, and it takes every ounce of will to stop himself from reaching out to touch her. _A secret_ , she’d murmured against his mouth the first time they’d kissed, _our secret._

( _Yes,_ he’d breathed back, because how could he not? He’d ached for her for months. _Yes, yes, whatever you want._ )

In the other room, doctors work frantically on Fury, attempting to undo the damage the first Captain America wrought on him. “Will he make it?” he asks Natasha, his voice quiet, reverent of the silence inside their room. She stares out into Fury’s room.

“I don’t know,” she murmurs. Her eyes are glued to the head surgeon’s bloodied hands. Her own are clean- at some point she must have managed to clean herself up, though her shirt is still stained beneath her leather jacket.

The door to their macabre little viewing room opens and Maria stalks in. Her gaze screams murder as it zeroes in on Fury. "Not all of his injuries were from the shooting,” she says without preamble.

The breath catches in his chest and the pair of them glance over at her uneasily. “We know,” Sam says carefully.

“I won’t ask why he was in your apartment.”

The tightness in his chest eases. “Good.”

Maria glances down at her phone, her expression stony. “Ballistics came back,” she says.

His brows rise in surprise. “That was quick.”

Maria shrugs. “Things happen quickly when it comes to an assassination attempt at the Director.” She glances back down at her phone. “The slugs had no rifling. Completely untraceable.”

“Soviet made.” The words seem to slip out of Natasha’s mouth. Maria’s stare turns sharp, and Sam stores Nat’s reaction away for later.

“Yeah,” she says slowly. She opens her mouth to speak, but is interrupted by the door opening. Rumlow and Sitwell enter, offering nothing but their presence. They fall silent, turning back to the operating room.

And then- rudely, _unfairly_ \- Fury flatlines. Natasha stiffens, and he hears her plead, “Don’t do this to me Nick.”

Sam doesn’t know if she’d intended for him to hear or not, and through the glass he watches her, even as the doctors try desperately to resurrect Fury. He wishes he could touch her- offer her comfort- but all he can give her is his presence. His skin _burns_ at her closeness, and he feels _helpless_ , because all he can do is watch. Like it’s Riley all over again.

“Come on, come on,” Natasha mouths, her words an unanswered prayer.

 Fury’s line doesn’t pick up. Sam thinks a surgeon calls his time of death, but he doesn’t hear it, too focused on the way Natasha’s face turns hard, jaw clenching. Maria walks away; Rumlow and Sitwell follow not long after, but the two of them stay rooted in place.

“I’m sorry,” he breathes as the surgeons begin cleaning up. Natasha tears her eyes away from the scene before them and looks up at him.

“I know the shooter,” she says, her expression raw and savage. Sam frowns at her.

“Yeah… it’s-”

“No,” she grits out. “I mean I’ve come across him before. I didn’t realise it before, but it didn’t take much to put two and two together.”

“Natasha-”

“They call him the Winter Soldier. Most of the intelligence community think he’s a ghost story, but he’s credited with over two-dozen assassinations in the last fifty years.”

Sam’s eyes widen, immediately understanding the significance of that piece of information. “I can see why people would call him a ghost story.”

Her brows twitch upwards. “Five years ago, I was escorting a nuclear engineer out of Iran when somebody shot out my tires near Odessa. I lost control and went straight over a cliff. I pulled us out… but the Winter Solder was there.” Her lips curl, bitter and mirthless. “I was covering my engineer, so he shot him straight through me. Soviet slug. No rifling.” She pulls up the hem of her blood-stained shirt, revealing the scar just above her hip. He swallows, mouth dry. Sam knows that scar. He’d had his mouth on it less than two days ago.

“Going after him’s a dead end; I’ve already tried.”

“Maybe, but somehow I doubt we’ve seen the last of him.”

She shrugs. “Maybe. Maybe not. But he’s not the kind of man you can just stumble across. You don’t _want_ to stumble across him.”

“Tell that to Bucky.”

In the other room, two men in plain hospital scrubs wheel Fury away. They follow them out, and the men take him into a private room, like somehow Fury’s still alive, and all Sam can think is _why_? The men- at a guess, Sam would call them nurses, but he’s not sure- leave quickly, sparing the two of them a sympathetic look as they go.

Sam stands several feet behind Natasha as she looks over Fury’s body, not wanting to seem like he’s hovering. He stares at her proud, straight posture, unsure of how much time has passed in that painfully quiet room before Maria finally enters. Her eyes look red, like she’s on the verge of crying when he glances over at her, but he says nothing and looks away.

“They need to take him,” she sighs. He nods and walks over to his maybe-girlfriend.

“Natasha,” he says. Searches for something else to say, but comes up empty.

Back still turned, she nods, and reaches out, resting a hand reverently to Fury’s forehead, like a mother might do to their child. Her hand withdraws, and she stalks past him; Sam catches sight of a single tear on her cheek and he chases after, but when she rounds on him out in the hall, any trace of it is gone.

“I want him dead,” she hisses at him, eyes sparking angrily. Sam swallows.

“I don’t know if that’ll be your call,” he says lowly.

Her face twitches and she looks away, visibly composing herself. When she turns back to him, she looks as calm and poised as she ever does and Sam can’t suppress the swell of affection he feels at the sight of her. “We’ll see,” she says simply.

“Nat-”

“Cap, they want you back at Shield.”

Sam turns to look at Rumlow, looking out of place amongst the green walls of the hospital in his TAC gear. “Gimme a second,” he says, and he turns back to Natasha.

“They want you _now_.”

He holds back a sigh, pivoting on his foot to look back at Rumlow. _SHIELD COMPROMISED_ , Fury had told them. Sam’s gaze catches on the way Rumlow’s eyes seem to skim over him, fingers tapping impatiently on his thigh. He looks… defensive.

His heart falls.

“Okay,” he says. Rumlow nods and walks away, waiting for him with the rest of the Strike team. Sam feels… lost. Beyond Natasha and Hill, he doesn’t know who to trust anymore, and part of him can’t help but curse Darcy and Bucky for turning up at his door. Things had been so much simpler before their appearance.

“Wait for me in the carpark,” he mouths. Natasha gives him a barely perceptible nod and twirls away from him. He suppresses another sigh, steeling himself, and joins Rumlow.

“Let’s go,” he says. Rumlow nods and he lifts his hand.

“Strike, move it out!” he orders, and the four other men walk ahead of them. Sam feels sick. He’s _worked_ with these men on countless occasions. He prays to God they’re not somehow involved in whatever’s going on, but Fury’s words to Darcy ring in his head. _Don’t trust anyone._

He grits his teeth.

“So… you and Romanoff,” Rumlow says as they tail the rest of the team. Sam glances over at him questioningly.

“What about us?” he asks, voice guarded.

Rumlow shrugs. “There anything going on between you?” At Sam’s raised eyebrows, he leers. “Why else would she be at your apartment that late?”

Sam fakes a laugh and shakes his head, smirking smugly ( _that_ at least, is not hard to fake). “She wanted to go over some of the new Avengers gear Stark sent us,” he lies smoothly. He knows Rumlow won’t believe him, but if it disguises the complete truth, he’s not about to complain.

“Pretty sure that’s against company policy,” he jokes as they step into the elevator. Sam shrugs, and wonders how no one else can hear how hard his heart is hammering in his chest.

“Then it’s a good thing that’s not what’s happening. Hate to be out of a job.”

“Yeah,” Rumlow drawls. The doors open. “That’d be a damn shame.”

They walk out. This late at night, the car park is mostly empty, and out of the corner of Sam’s eye, he sees a flash of red.

He strikes out, fist aimed straight at Rumlow’s jaw. The man’s head snaps to the side and he crumples into a limp heap. The Strike team explodes into chaos, their shouts echoing against the concrete as Sam picks up one of the men and throws him into another; both fall just as Natasha throws herself into the fray, clapping a bite to Rollins’ neck. He shouts as his body seizes, and Natasha strikes brutally him in the temple. He falls.

Sam stomps on the hand on one of the men he’d thrown, reaching for his weapon, and crouches down to snatch it out of harm’s way, using the butt of it to strike him in the temple. In the corner of his vision, Natasha takes out a man standing with another one of her widow’s bites, and Sam finishes off the last guy with another perfunctory hit to the temple.

The carpark falls quiet, and he looks up at Natasha, already patting down Rumlow in search of his keys.

“Thanks,” he says. Natasha pauses, glancing up at him momentarily. She smiles.

“You didn’t know if they were bad or not.”

He shakes his head, staring down at the motionless Strike team. “No,” he murmurs. “But I couldn’t risk going back to Shield. Who knows what could have happened”

“Your wings are back there.”

He shrugs. “Guess I’ll have to do without. I’ll manage; I’m more than a pretty face, you know.”

She presses her lips together to stop her smile from widening, and Rumlow’s keys jingle cheerily around her finger. “That’s a relief,” she smirks. He laughs softly and straightens, fishing his own keys from his pocket.

“We should go,” he says. Natasha gestures forwards.

“Lead the way, Captain,” she purrs. Sam smiles; he’ll never be used to hearing the phrase from her mouth.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sam totally has his wings as Captain America in this fic :D He doesn't have the shield though; that was lost when Steve went under the ice ^.^


	8. Chapter 8

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Darcy and Co. get a lead that points to New Jersey and Pierce has some unpleasant news.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> WARNINGS FOR VIOLENCE IN THIS CHAPTER. READER BEWARE.

_June 12 th 2014_

As per Natasha’s instructions- sent by text- Bucky and Darcy pull into a quiet pocket of suburbia, where CCTV cameras are few and far between, and privacy is preserved by fences and hedges. Darcy’s fingers drum impatiently against the wheel as the car idles, and Bucky scans the street, searching for any hint of their friends. Both of them relax as Sam and Natasha slip out of the shadows of the house they’re parked in front of.

“Where’d you leave your car?” Darcy asks curiously as the pair of them slide inside.

“Far away,” Sam says. Darcy drives off before they’ve even closed their doors and Bucky rolls his eyes.

“Could have waited, doll,” he drawls. Darcy shoots him a sly look.

“Maybe,” she says dryly. “But where’s the fun in that?”

“I dunno,” Sam gripes. “I might have liked a little time to put on my seatbelt.”

“Oh pish,” Darcy laughs. “You’re Captain Fucking America. Like you need to worry about petty things like a _seatbelt_.”

“Shouldn’t it be the other way around? You know, being a role model and al?” Bucky asks, and promptly winces as he remembers that Steve had always been the exact opposite.

Darcy shrugs. “Maybe. But that’s boring.”

“Boring?” Sam asks, incredulous. Darcy tries to counter, but Natasha cuts her off.

“Were you followed?”

Darcy snorts. “ _Please_ , Natasha, love. Do you really think I’d have turned up if we were? The only people who know about the car is Stark and Jarvis. And whoever fetched it for us, I suppose, but they didn’t know who it was destined for. We’re as safe as we can be, for now.”

“Hm,” Natasha hums, not sounding entirely convinced. “Do you still have the flash drive?”

“Right here.” Darcy pats her right breast. “Currently stabbing itself into my nipple. The things I do for global security,” she sighs dramatically.

“Good,” Natasha says, unaffected. Bucky doesn’t miss the way Darcy doesn’t mention her second USB, still stuffed into the other cup.

“What’s on it, anyways? Fury seemed pretty intent on keeping it safe.”

Bucky catches Natasha and Sam exchanging a look. “We don’t know,” Sam says eventually. “Nat took it from the Lemurian Star- or she filled it with files from the ship, anyway.”

“Direct orders from Fury,” Natasha adds. “I never had the luxury of looking into it.”

“Yeah; we kind of got blown up before she could manage,” Sam says dryly. Bucky and Darcy’s eyes widen, and she lets out a low whistle.

“Damn. _So_ glad I’m not in the family business.” She sighs mournfully. “Kind of wishing I’d stolen Sam’s laptop now.”

“It’s probably for the best,” Natasha says quickly, before Sam can say anything in outrage. “The drive is a level six homing program. Shield will be able to track us as soon as we boot up; better to use a PC; harder to trace us when you’re not attached to the computer.”

“True,” Darcy notes. “How about a library then? Most open at around nine or ten. That’s only… what, six- seven- hours away?”

“Then what do we do in the meantime?” Bucky asks. “All our plans have been turned on their heads.”

She snorts. “If you could call what we had ‘plans’.”

He shrugs. “Still. Do we drive, or do we hide? Lay low?”

“I’d guess we’d want to be as far away as possible from any Shield bases when we try out the drive,” Sam says. “If they can trace it, we’d want to be long gone by the time they reach the computer.”

“True.”

“Hagerstown,” Natasha says. “It’s a direct route north west of DC, but a good hour away from any facilities. It’s big enough that we’d stay anonymous, and should give us enough time to go in and out without getting caught.”

“Sweet,” Darcy smiles. “You’ll have to direct me though. I’ve no idea how to get there.”

“Wait,” Sam says suddenly, glancing between Darcy and Bucky, eyes widening. “ _You’re_ driving?”

“I’d have thought that would be obvious. What’s wrong Sammy?” Darcy croons. “Afraid of a little fun?”

“‘Fun’ is _not_ the word I’d use to describe your driving, unless you’ve miraculously improved since I last got in a car with you.”

“Trust me,” Bucky says darkly. “She hasn’t.”

Darcy laughs, a little unhinged. “Buckle up, buttercup! Today is gonna be great!”

Sam groans and covers his face with his hands. “I hate all of you.”

 

* * *

 

So soon after opening, the library is quiet, but Darcy can’t quite contain her nerves as she walks through the automatic glass doors, Natasha by her side. Bucky- bless his old-fashioned sensibilities- had been reluctant to let the two of them go off by themselves, but she maintains that it makes far more sense to have as few people in the library as possible, and he’d known better than to argue.

She hums quietly to herself, eyes darting around the spacious area anxiously. “I can’t shake the feeling that people are looking at us,” she hisses at Natasha, who walks across the space like she owns it.

“They’re not,” Natasha murmurs. They’d both taken the opportunity to freshen themselves up in a diner a few hours before, but there’d been no saving Natasha’s hair, and she looks far less put-together than Darcy’s used to. It’s oddly humanising. “Not unless you keep acting like you’re a fugitive.” She hooks her arm into the crook of Darcy’s elbow and smiles. “First rule of going on the run is don’t run, walk.”

“Easy for you to say,” Darcy grumbles. “I’ve never _been_ a fugitive before. Except for that one time I ran away from home for an hour.”

“Relax,” Natasha breathes. She smiles at the staff at the borrowing counter. “You’re not a fugitive.”

“ _Yet_.”

The double row of computers that line the back wall are all unoccupied, and Natasha slips behind one that can’t be seen from the front desk. Darcy flops down into a wheelie chair tiredly; her muscles are sore from sitting and trying to sleep in the car. She reaches down her shirt and pulls out the drive; it feels blood-hot in her hand. “So do we just… insert it? Do we need to log in first?”

“Just plug it in,” Natasha says quietly. At ten-past ten, they’re the only people using the computers, but that doesn’t mean they need to broadcast their conversation for the entire library to hear. “The software on it will override any operating system.”

“Neat.” Darcy slides the drive in carefully, and it pings quietly, humming beneath her fingers as it hijacks the computer, the usual windows screen replaced quickly with a utilitarian blue and black status window. _Lemurian Star Satellite_ , the header reads. “This won’t wreck the computer, will it?”

“Who cares?”

Darcy sends her an incredulous look. “Do you know how underfunded libraries are these days? I mean, this computer must be fucking five years out of date as it is! They’re not gonna have the money to replace it!”

“Then tell Stark to replace them. You know how into philanthropy he is these days, he’d probably chomp at the bit to get the opportunity.”

“But-”

“Darcy, could we just focus on the task at hand?”

She blinks. Shakes her head. “Right- sorry, being stupid.” Below the header is a table of logs, marked by date, ‘type code’, command and something called ‘fault code’- most of which are just a long string of numbers. She tries to open on of the logs marked ‘VITAL’, but is denied access. She huffs. “Couldn’t just make it easy for us, could he?”

“That’s not Fury’s style,” Natasha hums. She plucks the keyboard from Darcy’s hands and begins typing.

She scowls. “I could have managed that; I’m just as good a hacker as you, you know.”

“I know,” Natasha says, eyes glued to the screen. “But it’s possible Shield clearance could come in-” she breaks off. Frowns. “The data’s protected by some kind of AI,” she says, and her fingers fly across the keyboard even faster, but to no avail. “It keeps rewriting itself to counter my commands.”

Darcy’s brows rise. “Like Jarvis? Can you override it?”

Natasha glances at her from the corner of her eye. “The person who developed this is _slightly_ smarter than me,” she admits begrudgingly.

Darcy’s brows rise even higher. “Definitely like Jarvis then. I still haven’t managed break through him yet.”

“Same,” Natasha sighs. She pulls up another window. “I’m going to try running a tracer. Shield developed it to track hostile malware, so if we can’t read the files, we-”

“Can find out where they came from,” Darcy breathes. “That’s a good idea.”

The corner of her mouth twitches. “Thanks.”

The tracer runs for several minutes, a satellite image of the US open in the window. Darcy eyes the words ‘ _MISSILE LAUNCH STATUS_ ’ and feels vaguely queasy. _Please don’t make this another nuclear missile aimed at Manhattan kind of deal_ , she thinks.

“By the way,” she says. Natasha looks up from her intent stare at the screen. “What happened to Fury?”

The lines of her face turn hard and she looks away. Darcy’s heart falls. “Dead.”

Darcy presses her lips together. She reaches out to grasp Natasha’s shoulder in comfort. “I’m sorry. It… seemed like he meant a lot to you.”

Natasha is quiet for a long moment, staring dully at the computer. “He did,” she says eventually. “When Barton took me in, he was one of the few people who didn’t treat me like I was going to turn rogue again at any moment. He always expected more of me. By the end… he trusted me. Coming from the Red Room… it meant a lot.”

“I’m sorry,” she says again, feeling useless. Natasha shrugs half-heartedly.

“What’s done is done,” she says quietly. “Just have to keep going.”

“I guess.”

They fall quiet.

Finally, the tracer begins to work, and they watch as it triangulates itself over New Jersey, zooming into somewhere called ‘Wheaton’.

“Huh,” Darcy says. Natasha glances up at her as she pulls out her Shield phone and takes a photograph of the screen and the coordinates.

“You know it?”

She shakes her head. “No, it doesn’t ring a bell. It just… seems kind of anticlimactic, right? Like, New Jersey of all places. What the hell.”

Natasha rolls her eyes and plucks the drive out. The computer abruptly goes dead and Darcy can’t help but feel guilty. “As good a place as any. Maybe Sam or Bucky will understand the significance.”

“Maybe,” Darcy says. They both stand, and Natasha hands the drive back to her; Darcy tucks it safely back into her bra, shrugging when Natasha rolls her eyes at her. “Hey, they’re useful,” she protests.

Natasha’s gaze flickers momentarily down to her breasts. “I’m sure they’re useful for more than just that,” she purrs. Darcy fights a blush and tries not to think about Bucky; his… enthusiasm for her breasts is gratifying, but she’s not about to talk about that aspect of her sex life in a goddamn _library_.

“They are, thank-you very much,” she says. Natasha snickers and offers her her arm. They walk slowly out of the library and down to the left, where the car is still parked. Sam and Bucky have coffee waiting for them as they slip into the back seats and Darcy takes hers greedily.

“I love you,” she sighs happily, taking a deep draught. Sam turns the car on, chuckling.

“Who, me or Barnes?”

Darcy shrugs and puts her seatbelt on one-handed as Sam pulls out onto the road. “That depends; who bought the coffee?”

“I did,” Bucky says quickly. Sam snorts. “What? I _did_ ; I was the only one who had cash on me.”

Darcy bites her lip. “Careful love, your old man sensibilities are showing.”

“What?” Bucky squawks in mock outrage. “It doesn’t make sense not to have cash on you! It’s _useful!_ ”

“Sure it is, sweetheart.”

“I’m sorry, has it, or has it _not_ just come in handy?”

“Barnes,” Sam sighs heavily. “She’s pulling your leg.”

“I know that!” Bucky grouses. “Why do you think I’m reacting?”

Natasha shakes her head. “Leave them be, Sam. This is their weirdo version of foreplay.”

“Wha- it- it is _not!_ ” Bucky splutters, turning pink, and Darcy laughs heartily.

 “Oh babe, it kind of is.”

He shakes his head and turns back in his seat to stare out his window. “You’re the worst,” he grumbles. Darcy snickers at him.

“Speaking of the worst,” Sam says. “Did you find out what was on the drive?”

“No,” Natasha sighs. She runs her fingers through her messy hair, grimacing. “Kept getting blocked by some kind of AI, but we managed to trace the origin of the files back to Wheaton, New Jersey.”

Sam glances back at them, incredulous. “That seems… convenient.”

“You know where Wheaton is?”

Sam turns his attention back to the road. “No. I just mean that I half expected us to have to trek halfway across the country. Or the world.”

Natasha hums, looking down at her phone as she inputs the coordinates from the trace. “It’s about four hour’s drive. Longer if you take into account pit-stops and car changeovers,” she notes, passing the phone over to Bucky so he can set it on the dash. “Could be worse.”

Darcy brightens. “It’s like a road trip!”

“Yeah, except we’re on the run from a global intelligence agency,” Sam notes. Darcy grimaces at the thought. She’s worried; worried about Jane, about Thor, about Steve and Shield and her family. She hasn’t spoken to her dad for weeks, but she can’t risk calling him now.

“Things will be fine,” Sam says into the sombre silence that fills the car. Darcy smiles half-heartedly at the back of his seat.

How wrong they’d learn he was.

 

* * *

 

Alexander Pierce likes to think himself a patient man. Over the decades, he’s used that patience to great effect, creeping his way up the hierarchies of Shield and Hydra: biding his time, kow-towing to that _damn_ Security Council and the UN. There have been times when he’s been close- _so close_ \- to saying ‘fuck it all’ and setting the world aflame anyway, but as always, the impulse is tempered by that familiar, seething need to see the world bow before him, their freedom handed over willingly. The betrayal already tastes sweet on his tongue.

The image before him, Alexander is certain, has been sent to try his patience.

“I was under the impression she had been taken care of,” he says flatly. Agent Rumlow shuffles uneasily and scratches at the vivid bruise on his jaw. Alexander used to think the man was one of his better agents… though that was _before_ he let himself be jumped by Wilson.

“Thomas’ report says she had been, sir.”

Alexander breathes out slowly and represses the urge to break something. The static image of a smiling Darcy Lewis and Natasha Romanoff taunts him. They’re in a library, huddled behind a computer. “Then it would seem someone has been lying,” he says calmly. Rumlow blinks at the ice in his voice; Alexander’s fury has always been cold. Patient, but vicious, and rarely forgiving.

“I’ve already sent a team out, sir, but closest dispatch is still forty minutes out.”

“They’ll be long gone by then,” he sighs. “Pick up that computer; I want to know what they were looking for.”

“Yes sir.” Rumlow turns to leave and Alexander’s gaze returns to the camera footage.

“Rumlow?” he says, and the agent pauses, looking back questioningly. His obedience is gratifying. “Send Thomas and his team into branch. We’re going to have a chat.”

Rumlow blinks again and nods. “Yes sir,” he repeats, and leaves.

Alexander sighs heavily the moment the door closes, and leans back into his chair. He rubs at his face tiredly; with Insight drawing so close, his sleep’s been far from optimal, but victory is so close he can almost _taste_ it. He’s closer than he’s ever been to achieving Hydra’s new world order; a world that can finally be cleansed and fashioned into something pure. Something beautiful. _At last_.

And yet… _once again_ , fate throws him a curve ball. First Nick, hiring those damn pirates; then Wilson and Romanoff and now this no-name chit of a girl who should have been dead days ago. In _Hagerstown_ of all places. He wonders how she managed to get into the US; the mission report had clearly identified her as one of the Asset’s victims, but that was evidently a _lie_.

It begs the question of course; if Thomas had lied about her death, then what else has he lied about? Had the Soldier even been sent out? It would certainly explain why Shield hasn’t had the unholy fury of Asgard rain themselves down upon them yet.

He snatches the keyboard from his desk and pulls up the mission report. Goes over it again, but there’s nothing there to suggest something went awry in Mexico. The Asset was sent in, killed Doctor Foster, Darcy Lewis and her partner James Bennet, and Thor had fled to Asgard; all according to plan. Thomas’ writing is as immaculate as ever on the matter; it’s part of the reason why Alexander had made him handler for the mission. To learn that it had been hiding his own incompetence…

He breathes out slowly and shuts down his computer.

The drive to the ‘bank’ is quiet, and as he waits calmly in the typical midday traffic in DC, Alexander sits and he stews.

In the scheme of things, he supposes the possibility of Foster and her assistant surviving is inconsequential. Insight is two days from launch, and now that Fury is dead, the Asgardians and their planned diversion are irrelevant. If Foster _is_ truly alive, then it is frankly a relief. Even Lewis working with Wilson and Romanoff is unlikely to be anything more than an inconvenient thorn in his side; none of them are aware of the true purpose of Project Insight, and would be powerless to stop it regardless.

But that’s beside the point. Hydra demands order. Demands _obedience_. And Thomas and his teammates have demonstrated that they have been anything _but_.

And that, in Alexander’s eyes, is unforgiveable.

Never let it be said that Alexander Pierce is a forgiving man.

 

* * *

 

Evan Thomas is small, stout man with close-set eyes and a pinched mouth, largely unremarkable even with his blazing red hair and sharp wit. Alexander doesn’t know the ins-and-outs of his recruitment, but prior to this week, he had been a largely successful and professional agent, who had climbed the ranks quickly; more than deserving of the leadership position he’d been granted. At first, Alexander had been reluctant to just hand the Soldier off to any old agent- he would have much rather sent Rumlow off, really- but with Insight’s launch so close, he had felt it would have been unwise to let him stray too far. And Thomas had an excellent history of leading successful missions in the past; there’d been little reason to not let him advance just a little further.

He does so _hate_ when he’s proven wrong.

He stares down at the trembling form of Thomas with distaste. His team kneels before Alexander, all in various states of confused and terrified. The Soldier towers behind them, his gaze distant and unfocussed, but his presence is still enough to make those in the room uneasy. Alexander finds he rather likes the atmosphere.

“Why don’t you tell me again, Agent Thomas, what exactly happened in your last mission?” He smiles at the man. It doesn’t reach his eyes.

“Sir?” The agent glances over at his teammates, but they offer him no assistance.

“Forgive an old man,” he drawls. “Some of your details seem to have slipped my mind.”

He presses his lips together, eyes darting to the side again, before setting back on him. Alexander finds his hesitancy to speak rather telling. “We sent the Asset out at fifteen-hundred hours. He killed Foster, Lewis and Bennet and concussed Thor, who then fled to Asgard.”

“And did you confirm the success of the mission, afterwards?”

His gaze doesn’t flicker. “Yes sir.”

One of his teammates starts and glances over at Thomas, incredulous. Alexander’s eyebrows rise. “Vamirez, you have another story to tell?”

Vamirez glances back at Thomas, who looks stricken. She swallows, and looks back at Alexander, shoulders straightening. “I’m sorry sir, but that’s not what happens.”

Alexander’s smile is slight and he tilts his head. “Is that so.”

She nods. Purses her lips, a calculating look appearing in her eyes. _No honour among thieves_ , Alexander thinks with amusement. Or loyalty, it would seem. “We remained at the temporary stop whilst Agent Thomas sent the Asset out,” she explains, voice slow and deliberate. He watches the rest of the team, but none of them- excluding Thomas, the _liar-_ seem startled by her recollection. “When he- when _it_ \- returned, Thomas asked it only a handful of questions, and then we left.”

Alexander blinks slowly. _Protocol_ , he thinks, a cold and silent fury growing inside him. _This is why we have protocols._ “So you did not, as Thomas’ report suggested, confirm Foster’s death? Or those of her employees?”

Vamirez shakes her head. “No sir,” she says firmly, the barest trace of smugness in her voice.

“I- the Asset- he said they were dead!” Thomas blurts out, face rapidly turning an alarming shade of puce. “Why would I not believe it? It had no reason to lie!”

Alexander stares at him coldly. “Hydra demands compliance in all things, Agent Thomas.” He sighs heavily. “How can we establish a new world order if we fail to maintain order within our ranks?”

“Wh- why is this _my_ fault?” Thomas splutters, and Alexander’s eyes narrow. Vamirez and the other agents edge away from him, alarmed “It’s the Asset’s fault for not doing its damn job! If it couldn’t even perform a simple fucking kill order that’s not on me!”

Alexander spares a look towards the ceiling, the closest he can manage to something as dignified as rolling his eyes. “Such a waste,” he sighs, and he reaches into his suit jacket and pulls out a gun, flicks off the safety and shoots Thomas twice in the chest. The deafening _CRACK_ S of the shots make Alexander’s ears ring, but the satisfaction of watching him slump to the ground more than makes up for the discomfort.

The Soldier doesn’t even flinch.

Alexander’s lips twist into a cruel facsimile of a smile as he tucks the pistol back into his jacket. Vamirez stares down at her downed teammate with shock. The blood spattered across her face is almost artistic. Thomas twitches on the floor, gasping desperately for air, but no one makes a move to help him. As always, the obedience is pleasing.

“Let that be a reminder,” he tells the remaining three, “Disobedience- nor failure- will be tolerated. Are we clear?”

A chorus of ‘Yes Sir’ echoes back at him. The Soldier remains silent, gaze distant, as though-

Alexander narrows his eyes in dismay. As though remembering something.

Sometimes, he thinks the Soldier is more trouble than he’s worth.

He returns his gaze back to the remaining agents. “Next time you fail me, I won’t be so lenient,” he tells them. They bow their heads. None glance over at Thomas’ unmoving body. “Get out.”

In unison, the agents stand and shuffle out of the room. The Soldier doesn’t move and Alexander finds some vague comfort to find he’s still cognizant enough to be aware of orders that aren’t directed at him.

“Vamirez,”

She pauses in the doorway, swallowing nervously. “Sir?”

“Give me your baton.”

She hands it over without comment, gaze straying towards the Soldier momentarily. Alexander nods pointedly at the door and she bows her head, following the rest of the agents out. The door closes quietly behind them, and the silence than reigns inside is so heavy he can almost taste it.

“Kneel down, Soldier.” The order tastes sweet on his tongue, and that ugly thing inside him only swells as the Asset’s knees bend immediately. His gaze however remains infuriatingly unfocussed.

Alexander extends the baton with a fluid flick of his arm and taps the end of it questioningly against his other hand. “You’ve been an invaluable tool to Hydra for decades, Soldier” he notes. He restrains himself from giving into the urge to circle the Soldier like a shark. “Thanks to you, we are so close to true domination that our success is all but guaranteed. A splendid, mindless _,_ _asset_.”

The Soldier’s head twitches minutely; the only indication he is listening. Alexander smiles, and crouches down before him, mindful of the blood that pools around Thomas’ body. The Soldier’s gaze still refuses to focus, and irritated, he reaches out, grabbing him by the jaw, _demanding_ his attention. Alexander feels a thrill at the contact, like he’s wrapped his hand around a live wire, and the feeling only intensifies when the Asset finally looks at him with clarity. His eyes widen gratifyingly, and Alexander can feel the short, fearful punch of air from his nose.

He smiles. Lets go. “Decades of obedience,” he tells the Soldier. “The occasional slip-ups were forgiveable, of course, when faced with your _impeccable_ work. The Winter Soldier never fails. Never falters.”

Alexander fishes his phone from the inner pocket of his jacket, his fingers brushing against the butt of his pistol as he pulls it out. Pulls up the image Rumlow had shown him, and holds it up for the Soldier to see.

He smiles coldly at the minute widening of the Soldier’s eyes. The faintest quickening of breath. “So tell me, what made this mission different?”

A ringing silence.

Alexander sighs and stands up, holding back a groan as his knees protest at the movement. It kills him, sometimes, to realise he’s growing _old_. “Why did you leave her alive, Soldier?” he asks, and his voice brooks no argument. The Soldier’s fingers curl into fists, but still he doesn’t speak.

Alexander’s upper lip curls, and he lifts his arm and brings it down swinging. The baton lands hard against the Soldier’s jaw and he sprawls down onto the cold concrete. Alexander hits him again, across the ribs and hears something snap. The Soldier keens, but doesn’t get up.

“This. Is a. Direct. Order!” Alexander snarls, punctuating his words with savage strikes of the baton. The Soldier bites back a sob and the sound makes him pause, blood hammering through his veins at the dizzying power he holds, towering over what once was America’s greatest hero. He straightens. Breathes out slowly. “Why was Lewis left alive?” he demands. “ _Speak_ Солдат!”

The Soldier mumbles something. Alexander restrains the urge to beat him again. “Speak _louder_ , Солдат,” he repeats. The Soldier trembles on the ground.

“I… knew him.”

The world stills. Alexander has to force himself to breathe. “The Asgardian?”

The Soldier is quiet. His fingers curl back into fists, filthy with blood; Alexander doesn’t know if it’s Thomas’ or his own. When he looks up, there’s a flicker of defiance in his gaze that Alexander finds distinctly unsettling. A vivid, ugly bruise is already formed on his jaw. “You are trying my patience,” he says lowly when it becomes clear the Soldier won’t elaborate. “Shall we do this the hard way? Do we need to find a child again?”

The Soldier flinches and looks back down at the ground.

“The other man,” he breathes, and Alexander’s brows rise. Sometimes it takes him by surprise, how exquisitely his predecessors managed to break this man. “I _knew_ him.”

Alexander frowns. He doesn’t know how that could be possible- it would have shown up in their background search. Curious, he unlocks his phone, bringing up the original dossier and flicks through until he comes across the image of James Bennet. His frown deepens as he stares at the image. There’s something familiar about him. Something in the curl of his mouth as he stares at the camer-

 _Oh_.

“Bennet,” he asks slowly. “Did he recognise you?”

“He… called me S-Steve,” the Soldier says haltingly, as though searching for the words. Alexander purses his lips, gaze pinned on the remarkable- _impossible_ \- photograph of James Buchanan Barnes. It’s ludicrous; the man’s been dead for seventy years, or thereabouts. In the short time he’d known Doctor Zola, the man had lamented Barnes’ death; _‘my greatest work’_ he’d sighed, _‘such a shameful waste_ ’. Alexander remembers being a child, learning with dismay about the man’s death; fallen to his death in the Alps, his body never recovered. Much like his best friend, in that way.

He holds back the laughter that threatens to burst out of him. Much like his best friend in _many_ ways, as it turns out. Even the name is glaringly transparent; whoever had given him a new identity clearly hadn’t put much effort into it. And yet…

 _Hiding in plain sight_ , a voice whispers in his mind. Alexander wonders what fool he’s going to have to kill for botching up _that_ particular background check. Surely it would have been glaringly obvious the moment they’d gone looking.

“Did you kill him?” he asks, the familiar, quiet fury brewing in his gut.

The Soldier’s silence is telling enough. Alexander closes his eyes momentarily.

“What a tragedy you are,” he sighs with dismay. Yet another spanner thrown into the works, and Insight’s success seems just that little further from his grasp. Alexander walks away, swinging open the door. He nods towards the technicians, waiting anxiously outside the room. “Wipe him.”

When he eventually leaves, the Soldier’s screams echo off the walls of the Vault like a symphony.


	9. Chapter 9

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which NO ONE SEEMS TO UNDERSTAND THE CONCEPT OF STAYING DEAD

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Technically, this was meant to be part of chapter 8, but I split it into two chapters because it was getting too long.

Bucky steals them a car in Carlisle, and Natasha acquires them another in Pottstown; an old pick-up truck that has no working air-conditioning and a stereo that only picks up country music. Darcy survives only five minutes of the staticky songs before she begs Natasha to turn it off and Bucky lets out a sigh of relief as Natasha relents.

It’s a small mercy, really, though the sound of the wind blowing through the open windows is still more than enough to give him a headache. To try and counteract it, he snoozes through most of the drive. By the time he wakes properly, the sun sits low on the horizon, and Darcy’s feet are perched on his lap, her body twisted awkwardly in her seatbelt.

Bucky watches her doze, and wraps his hand gently around the graceful curve of her ankle. Her skin is warm and smooth, and her hands twitch in her lap as she dreams. The circles beneath her eyes aren’t as pronounced as they were yesterday, but she still looks tired.

Bucky feels… helpless. Conflicted. Part of him wants to hide her away until all of this blows over, but the more reasonable part of him understands that that isn’t his decision to make. But the thought of her getting tangled in whatever web they’re about to find themselves in fills him with the worst kind of dread. He swallows back the swell of emotion and looks away. His stitches itch like crazy.

“Turn left,” Natasha says quietly, and Bucky looks up. She slouches down in the passenger seat, feet perched carelessly on the dash.

“Are we there yet?” Bucky asks as Sam follows her directions, turning down onto a one-lane, unmarked road.

“Almost,” Natasha says. “Take the next left.”

“Got it,” Sam says, and they turn again, this road even more decrepit than the last. Grass edges right up to the asphalt and the road surface is pitted and uneven, jostling them enough to wake Darcy. She grimaces and rubs at her neck.

“God,” she groans. “You’d think I’d be used to sleeping in cars.”

 “Naw,” Sam says. “That’s something you never get used to. You just learn to pretend it doesn’t affect you; like Nat.”

“Excuse you,” Natasha says, sounding affronted. “I can adapt to any situation. Including sleeping with my neck at a right angle.”

“Liar.”

“Why don’t you pull over and we’ll see who the _real_ liar is?”

“Wow,” Darcy says. “And you guys said _we_ were bad.”

“You are,” Natasha and Sam say in unison. Darcy cracks up, her feet digging into Bucky’s thigh. He can’t help but join in. What a group they must make.

“Yeah, yeah; laugh it up you two,” Sam drawls.

“Take the next right,” Natasha orders, laughter hidden in her voice. Sam turns them down the next road, and slows down quickly, drawing to a stop in front a large wire fence that seems to disappear off into the trees on either side of the road. The stop signs attached to its chained up gate are old and faded, and the grounds beyond is overgrown, long grass caressing the abandoned buildings like a lover.

“End of the line,” Sam murmurs. He turns off the truck, and the sudden absence of its guttural growl is shocking. They get out, Natasha frowning down at her phone as Darcy and Sam wander over to the old gate, inspecting it curiously.

“Is this it?” Bucky asks into the silence, staring out at the buildings with a strange sense of unease.

Natasha glances up at him and shrugs. “This is where the file originated from.”

There’s a sign beside the gates, the letter appliques cracked and peeling, but the lines _CAMP LEHIGH_ and _US ARMY RESTRICTED AREA_ and (more importantly) _USE OF DEADLY FORCE IS AUTHORISED_ are still plenty legible.

 _Camp Lehigh,_ Bucky mouths. There’s something familiar about the name, and the buildings beyond it are too, in the way so many of the buildings built in the 1930s and 40s are to him. “ _Oh_.”

Darcy and Sam glance over at him. Darcy has something small and metallic in her hands and an oddly guilty look on her face. “What?”

“Do you know this place?” Natasha asks. Bucky nods.

“I think… I think this is where Steve was trained. Before they gave him the serum.” He motions to the sign. “I remember Steve telling me about this place… it was where he first met Carter.”

The four of them share a look. “Do you think there’s a correlation?” Sam asks. Bucky shrugs helplessly.

“I don’t know… I don’t really see how there could be, though.”

“We still need to check it out,” Natasha says. Darcy turns back to the gate; she’s picking the locks, he realises.

“I didn’t know you could do that,” he says with surprise as the lock- suspiciously shiny considering the state of the place- pops open quickly. Darcy sends him an enigmatic smile.

“My dad taught it to me as a kid,” she explains, tucking the little tool away into her jeans. “He thought it was a good skill to have.”

Sam raises a brow. “Expected you to get into trouble, huh.”

“No,” Darcy laughs. “But I think he puts a bit too much stock into action and espionage movies; never quite trusted the government to keep us safe.”

“Smart man,” Natasha says. Darcy smiles again and tugs the chains out. Natasha kicks at the gate and it swings open with a shriek of protest, tearing out chunks of grass as it goes.

They wander the grounds in the dying light, fanned out behind Natasha and her fancy Shield phone, taking care to keep quiet in case any undesirables might hear them. They’re searching for any hints of tampering; any evidence that could tell them where the files from the Lemurian Star might have come from.

Twilight seems to drag on and on. The fading light reduces the buildings into hazy, indistinct shapes that pulsate with the wind blowing through the trees and bushes growing out of them; nature slowly reclaiming its land. The sight is oddly nostalgic; the camp is an abandoned relic of a time forgotten to everyone but him, it seems.

Finally, as they reach the last row of barracks, Natasha huffs and stops. “This is a dead end,” she says, turning back to them. The grass here reaches up to Bucky’s waist, and he tries not to think about what may be lurking beneath it. “Zero heat signature, zero waves, not even radio.”

“Maybe they were using a router?” Darcy ventures. “If I was trying to hide something, and I had the resources for it, that’s what I’d do.”

“True,” Natasha sighs. “But that’d mean we’ve gone as far as we can with this.”

“So we look for another line of inquiry,” Sam says. Natasha scoffs.

“Like what? This was the only lead we had, Wilson.”

“I don’t know- we could come back in the morning, when it’s light and check it out again!”

Bucky fades out their arguing, looking around them curiously.  He can’t shake the feeling that there’s something off about the final row of buildings. Irritated, he runs his gaze over them again: _barracks, barracks, barracks with a tree growing out of it, ammunitions bunker, barrac-_

“Ha,” he laughs softly. He points at the bunker. “That building’s in the wrong place.”

The other three fall quiet, glancing over at him with surprise. “What do you mean?” Darcy asks, coming to stand beside him curiously.

“Well, I don’t know what it’s like now, but in the 40s, army regulations forbid the storing of any ammunitions within five hundred yards of the barracks.” He motions to the building again. “That isn’t meant to be there.”

“As good a lead as any,” Natasha shrugs, and they wade through the long grass to reach it. There’s a new-looking padlock on the door- just like the gate- and Darcy picks it for them easily; Bucky feels a rush of affection and pride when it quickly _clicks_ open.

“Nice job,” he says, and Darcy glances over her shoulder at him, smirking.

“Thanks,” she drawls, and she tugs on the handle, pulling it open with suspicious ease. It opens to a short flight of stairs and from the light of their phones they can see that the dust on the steps and railings is thick enough to show the faintest imprint of footsteps, fading into nothingness on the floor below. They share a look.

Sam takes the lead, taking the steps cautiously, but they barely creak beneath his weight. Natasha and Darcy follow next and Bucky enters last, glancing around the room warily. It looks like an office of some kind, wheelie chairs and desks and filing cabinets left discarded in the dark.

Sam wanders over to the wall, studying the switch on the wall.

“It is _not_ hooked to the power,” Darcy says, her voice cutting through the oppressive silence of the strange, secret office. “Surely not.”

Sam twists around to look at them, shrugging. “What’s the harm in trying?”

“Well it could be-” Darcy tries to say, but Sam turns the switch with an audible _click_ \- “booby trapped,” she finishes, sighing heavily as the lights flicker on. “Asshole.” All of them stare at the back wall, where a familiar (if outdated) logo of a stylised eagle is painted onto the cream and blue concrete.

“This is Shield,” Natasha says, disbelief ringing in her tone.

“Where it started, do you think?” Darcy asks, peering curiously down a row of desks. She runs her fingers over an old typewriter and grimaces at the dust she picks up, wiping her hand on her jeans. Bucky wanders up to the logo, head tilted curiously; Shield is beyond his time, but this place feels familiar. Like a quarter-dozen SSR bases he’s wandered through.

To the right there is a wall of frosted glass and a single door, and he walks over to it, turning the handle; it’s unlocked and swings open silently. He moves into what looks like it might have been an archives room, with long rows of shelving and a few empty cardboard boxes strewn around. There are three portraits pinned to the opposite wall. The middle one is crooked, its glass shattered.

Bucky stares at the aged photographs of Peggy, Howard and Colonel Phillips, and can’t help but think of Steve. _What happened to you?_ he wonders, not for the first time.

Darcy joins him, staring curiously up at the photographs. “That’s Peggy,” she notes with a faint tone of surprise. “And Tony’s dad.”

“Howard,” Bucky rasps. Darcy squints up at the picture of him.

“Who’s the other guy?”

“Colonel Phillips,” Bucky says, taking care to stop his voice from echoing in the enclosed space. “He was in charge of Project Rebirth, and our commanding officer… technically. Bit of a prick, but fair. Steve respected him.”

“Hey, check this out!” Sam says to their left, and they turn. He stands beside a one of the shelves and knocks on the metal, studying it carefully

Bucky frowns at him in confusion. “What is it?”

“Well it’s just…” Sam trails off. He smiles at them grimly and pushes at the space between the bookcases. The room fills with a godawful shrieking sound, and the shelves slide open. “I don’t know about you, but if you already have a secret base, what’s the point of hiding the elevator?”

“Holy shit,” Darcy says into the silence that follows. Bucky can’t help but agree with her.

They join Sam. Inside the recess are two metal doors and an ancient-looking keypad. Natasha pulls out her phone and holds it out in front of it, and the phone scans it, pulling up a code in far less time than Bucky thinks is believable.

Natasha inputs the code, and the doors slide open. “First try,” she says smugly.

“Damn, girl.” Darcy whistles lowly. “Is there anything that phone _can’t_ do?”

“It does everything but tell you the time,” Natasha drawls. Darcy lets out a sharp bark of laughter.

They step inside, tentative, but the elevator doesn’t groan or shiver at their entrance. The control panel only has three floors; ground, and two levels below it. On a whim, Bucky hits the first floor and the doors slide shut with a faint creak. The elevator takes them down without incident- several floors down, Bucky thinks- and open with a cheery little _ping_ that feels wildly out of place with the dark room it opens out into. Several yards away, Bucky can see multiple rows of red and yellow lights, blinking intermittently.

They walk through cautiously, and Bucky glances back nervously as the elevator doors roll closed. Lights glow from beneath several metal grates on the floor, and they move forward cautiously. As they do, their motions trigger the lights, which flicker on one by one, revealing a massive, dusty room full of computers.

“Fuuuck,” Darcy breathes in wonder, looking around with wide, awed eyes. Her footsteps rattle faintly on the metal grating. “Oh my God, this place is ancient! They haven’t had computers like these since the seventies- maybe eighties!” She pauses, frowning as she looks back at them. “There’s _no way_ the data could have come from here. Maybe we’re looking for a router after all.”

Natasha walks past her, stepping up onto the raised podium in the middle of the room, where the main terminal and computer screens are mounted. “I wouldn’t be so sure about that,” she says, glancing back at them. Darcy joins her and makes a soft exclamation of surprise.

“Man, talk about up-cycling,” she laughs. “What’s a fucking flash drive port doing here?”

Bucky and Sam catch up to them, and he raises his brows in surprise at the shiny, _new_ port that someone has recently added to the computer system. The imprint of their presence is marked by the scars in the dust; darker patches where it’s been semi-recently disturbed.

“Give me the drive,” Natasha demands, and Darcy reaches into her shirt and hands it over without comment. With only the briefest hesitation, Natasha plugs it in, and in response the central computer boots up.

“Initiate System?” A robotic voice asks, its question written for them in green writing on the central computer screen.

Natasha smiles. “Y-E-S, spells yes,” she says, and hits _enter_. Like magic, the computers around them begin to turn, a strange, unnatural whirring sound filling the cavernous room.

Something a lot like dread blossoms in the pit of Bucky’s stomach.

The central console beeps softly, and vertical green lines appear on the screen. The flicker unsteadily, but gradually merge to create a rough approximation of a face, the distinct shape of large, round glasses the only point of certainty.

Bucky knows who it is before the computer even attempts to speak.

“Lewis, Darcy Cecilia. Born, 1986.” Bucky’s stomach plummets at the sound of the accented voice, and he sways on his feet, frozen in place with terror. The camera perched above the screen swivels slowly over them. “Romanoff, Natalia Alianova. Born 1984.” The camera continues to swing. Bucky wonders if his heart will ever begin to beat again. “Wilson, Samuel Thomas. Born, 1978.”

The camera lands on Bucky, and he forgets how to breathe. There is a long pause, and he almost imagines it’s surprised. “Barnes, James Buchanan…. Born, 1917,” the voice from the computer says, wonder in its voice. “You could have been my greatest work,” the voice purrs. “How disappointed I was to learn that you had… died. What a wonder it is to see you alive.”

Natasha glances between Bucky and the computer, alarmed. “Must be some kind of recording. It’s-”

“I am not a recording, Fräulein,” the voice interrupts, sounding irritated. “I may not be the man I was when the _Captain_ took me prisoner in 1945, but I _am_.” In the screen to the right, a photograph appears, his round face frowning at them from the past. Nausea floods through him, and the phantom pressure of restrains presses down on his chest and throat.

“Who… who is he?” Darcy says, glancing back at Bucky. “Who _is_ that?”

“Arnim Zola.” The name is torn from his mouth without his consent. When he blinks he sees the man smile at him, the image seared into his retinas. He’s not sure if he’s a hallucination or just a memory.

When Bucky makes no attempt to speak further, Sam takes over. “He was a German scientist… worked for the Red Skull. He _died_. Decades ago.”

“First correction,” Zola says, “I am Swiss. Second; look around you. I have never been more alive. In 1972 I received a terminal diagnosis. Science could not save my body, my mind, however, that was worth saving on two hundred thousand feet of data banks. You are standing _in my brain_.”

 _No_ , Bucky thinks, repressing the urge to scream. _No no nononononono-_

“How did you get here?” Sam demands.

“Invited,” Zola says smugly.

“They- they _invited you?_ ” Bucky breathes in disbelief. “After everything you’ve done?” He wants to leave. Wants to run away. Wants to set this entire room on fire and maybe himself with it.

“Operation Paperclip,” Darcy says. She stares at Bucky, clued in easily enough to his distress. “After World War II, the US government and military recruited German scientists- Nazi’s among them.” She glances back at the computer, where the eagle symbol on Fury’s flash drive is clearly visible. “Shield must have done the same.”

“They did,” Natasha confirms. “Snapped up any scientists that could be of strategic value.”

“They thought I could help their cause,” Zola boasts. “I also helped my own.”

Bucky stumbles backwards in horror. “ _No_.”

“Hydra died with the Red Skull,” Sam says with certainty. Darcy reaches for Bucky as Zola laughs at them.

“Cut off one head, two more shall take its place.”

Darcy’s grip on his arm is tight enough to bruise, but Bucky barely feels the pain as Sam demands the computer to ‘prove it’. Images appear on the screen but he doesn’t take them in, the blood roaring in his ears.

“Hydra was founded on the belief that humanity could not be trusted with its own freedom. What we did not realize, was that if you try to take that freedom, they resist. The war taught us much. Humanity needed to surrender its freedom willingly. After the war, Shield was founded and I was recruited. The new Hydra grew. A beautiful parasite inside Shield. For seventy years Hydra has been secretly feeding crisis, reaping war. And when history did not cooperate, history was changed.”

“That’s impossible,” Natasha snaps. “Shield would have stopped you.”

“Accidents will happen,” Zola says enigmatically, and he shows them newsprints of Howard and Maria Stark’s accident, followed by a case file marking Fury as deceased. Bucky’s breath hitches in his chest at the sudden, sharp realisation.

“You found Steve,” he says in despair, and a black and white photograph of Steve’s shield, encased in ice, appears on the screen.

“In 1946, Hydra searched for the Tesseract,” Zola explains, and an image of the cube supersedes the shield. “Instead we found the Captain, frozen in time. What a joy it was to learn he could be resurrected.”

A film of Steve plays upon the screen, throwing himself at the bars of a cage, alight with rage. There is what looks like a child lying at his feet.

Bucky snarls with a sudden, overwhelming fury, and he lunges forwards, plunging his fist through the glass. It cracks but doesn’t shatter. “What did you do to him!” he shouts. Zola laughs at him tauntingly.

“He came to us the perfect hero,” Zola sneers, his face appearing on another screen, “but his perfection made him imperfect. We crafted him into something greater than the sum of his parts. With the Soldier’s help, Hydra created a world so chaotic that humanity is finally ready to sacrifice its freedom to gain its security. Once the purification process is complete, Hydra’s new world order will arise. We have already won.” Bucky stares in horror and confusion at the images that speed through on the remaining computer, but Natasha and Sam look stricken.

“What’s on that drive?” Sam rasps.

“Project Insight requires _insight,_ Captain. So I wrote an algorithm.”

“What kind of algorithm?” Natasha demands. “What does it do?”

“The answer to your question is fascinating,” Zola gloats. “Unfortunately, you shall be too dead to hear it.”

They glance back towards the elevator, startled, but the door is already closing, and Bucky knows they won’t make it in time. He scans the room desperately as the others curse, searching for some kind of sign of their inevitable doom, but he sees nothing- _nothing_!

Natasha pulls her phone from the pocket of her jacket. “We’ve got a bogey. Short range ballistic. Thirty seconds tops.”

Bucky’s gaze falls on Darcy, the ground wrenched from under him for the umpteenth time. _No_ , he pleads. _No, PLEASE._

“Who fired it?” Sam asks. Bucky scans the room again, this time searching for something- _anything_ \- that might save them.

“Shield,” Natasha says. The word spurs Bucky into action even as Zola tries to give them his parting words. He drags Darcy down from the podium, pulse hammering in his ears, and wrenches the wire mesh upwards from one of the panels in the floor.

“Get in,” he orders her, Sam and Natasha hot on his heels, the same idea in mind. Darcy obeys, tight-lipped and pale with fear, and he bundles himself down on top of her, the grating landing with a solid _thunk_ above them.  He prays it will be enough. “Cover your ears,” he tells her, and he curls around her as she complies. A mantra of _please, please, please, PLEASE,_ plays on repeat in his head. In the distance, he can still hear Zola laughing at them.

He presses himself tight against her, desperately memorising the scent and feel of her. “I love you,” he breathes into her hair. Darcy shifts, as though trying to respond, and the world around them explodes.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> # 


	10. Chapter 10

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> SURPRISE! NOBODY DIED

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> warnings for more violence, the threat of violence, and canonical minor character death

_June 12 th 2014_

“-cky? _Bucky?_ ”

Bucky groans and reaches up to grab at the hand slapping him in the face. “ _Fuck me_ ,” he moans. Everything _hurts_ , his ears are ringing, and there’s a thick layer of grit all over his skin. His mouth is full of the taste of blood and dust. By this point of the week, it’s familiar.

“Bucky,” the voice says urgently. It sounds a lot like Sam. “C’mon man, you need to get up.”

_The computers. Zola. Hydra hidden in plain sight and a-_

He sucks in a sharp breath. The missile. He tries to open his eyes, but one of them is gummed up; likely with blood. “Darcy,” he breathes, staring up at a crazy-eyed Sam. He looks as bad as Bucky feels, light from the fire around them reflecting off the blood on his face. “Is she-?”

“She’s fine,” Sam says, glancing around furtively. The air is thick with smoke, but Bucky can just make out the immobile forms of Darcy and Natasha, carefully propped up against the rubble. The blood that coats the side of her face makes his stomach swoop with dread. “Just unconscious, I think. Same with Natasha. You and that grate took the brunt of the damage.”

“Oh thank God,” Bucky sobs with relief. He can’t- the thought of her being hurt… _kills_ him.

“We need to get out of here,” Sam says. “Shield’ll be here any minute, and I don’t want to be here when they turn up. You think you can stand?”

Bucky pats himself down with shaking hands; his ankle might be sprained, and more than a few of his ribs feel like they could be bruised- he avoids deep breaths- but otherwise he’s miraculously okay. “I’m fine,” he says, and Sam’s shoulders slump with relief. “Help me up.”

Sam stands with a pained groan and holds out his hand, pulling Bucky up with an unnatural ease. He doesn’t comment on it; nor does he mention the piles of concrete strewn around them, almost as though someone with impossible strength had dug him out.

In the distance, over the crackle of the flames, they hear the high-pitched whine of an approaching quinjet. “Shit,” Sam curses, and he stoops down to cradle Natasha in his arms. Bucky follows suit, though his wound- still only half-healed- forces him to carry Darcy fireman’s style. Still, his shoulder throbs in time with his ribs as they look for a clear path through the rubble.

“This way,” Sam says, and he leaps up onto a chunk of concrete with ease. Not to be outdone, Bucky imitates the move almost flawlessly, and together they frog-leap out of the ruins of the ~~Shield~~ Hydra bunker, like the supersoldiers the world made them to be.

They’re well hidden by the forest by the time Shield reaches ground zero.

* * *

Hidden by the heavy window tinting of his car, Alexander sighs heavily and scrubs at his face with his hand.

Again.

They’ve slipped through his fingers, _again;_ disappearing back into the woodwork like ghosts. The curse of having the Black Widow on their side, he supposes.

Still… total victory seems just that little further away.

He turns off the car and steps out. The night is warm and humid- like stepping out into a sauna- and he feels sweat prickle in the small of his back as he unlocks his front door and slips inside, sighing with relief at the instant change in temperature. He tugs off his tie, wandering through the house to change into something more comfortable. Renata smiles at him as she emerges from one of the spare bedrooms and he smiles back, but doesn’t try to make conversation. She’s a quiet woman; friendly to a point, but makes no effort to engage beyond the basic pleasantries. The best kind of help, in his opinion.

The hoodie he puts on is soft and comfortable, so different from the stifling confinement of his suits and Alexander sighs again, fingering at the cuff a moment before rucking the sleeves up his forearms. He wanders down the hall and into the kitchen, pulling the milk from the fridge and sets it down on the counter behind him.

He does a double-take, heart momentarily freezing in his chest before starting up again. He fights to keep his expression neutral.

Hidden in the shadows of his unlit kitchen, the Soldier sits silent and motionless at Alexander’s table. The light from the fridge is reflected back in the handgun that sits forebodingly on the antique walnut, and the Soldier’s empty stare.

He lets the door fall closed.

“I’m going to go, Mr. Pierce!” Renata calls out and Alexander twitches in surprise. “You need anything before I leave?”

He keeps his eyes trained on the Soldier. _Don’t come in here_ , he prays. _Don’t walk around that bend._ “No. Uh… it’s fine, Renata, you can go home.”

“Okay. Night-night!” Blessedly, she doesn’t venture past the partition separating the kitchen from the hallway. The Soldier doesn’t so much as twitch.

“Good night,” he says. He hears her leave and the front door close, and presses his lips together, forcibly swallowing back his unease. He’d already known they were sending the Soldier to his house… he just hadn’t expected him so soon. Nor for him to seem so menacing.

Fear is not a familiar concept to Alexander.

“Want some milk?” he asks, feigning nonchalance. The Soldier remains silent, and Alexander turns and picks himself a glass.

“The timetable has moved,” he says as he fills it with milk. “Our window is limited.” His late wife used to hate that little quirk of his; used to frown at him in disapproval, as though somehow, the odd glass here or there would make him fat. In the end, it had been a pleasure to watch her slowly die, cancer eating away at the woman she used to be.

He wanders around the kitchen island, and sits down at the table, the Soldier’s gun within easy reach. “You’ve four targets. Two civilians, two level six.” He grimaces. It’s a risk, sending the Soldier out after Barnes and his friends. He knows, intellectually, that there could be a benefit to capturing Barnes and keeping him alive, but the risk of him somehow reverting the Soldier’s conditioning is too high. And unwilling assets have, over the years, proven themselves to be inefficient.

At least the wipe this time had been scrupulous. “They already cost me Zola. I want confirmed death in ten hours… be sure to kill the civilians first.”

“Sorry, Mr. Pierce,” Renata says suddenly, and Alexander twists in his seat to see her faltering by the mouth of the kitchen. “I…” she trails off, gaze falling on the Soldier behind them. “I forgot my phone.”

Even in the dim light of the kitchen, Alexander can see her swallow, hands twitching with fear.

“Oh Renata,” he sighs. Reaches back to the table and picks up the gun. “I wish you would have knocked.”

Her eyes widen and she stumbles backwards, but it makes no difference at this range, and the bullet tears through her all the same. She screams once.

When he shoots her again, she doesn’t make a sound.

* * *

_June 13 th 2014_

Darcy comes to in the hot press of darkness, feeling somewhere between ‘death warmed over’ and ‘holy shit what the fuck happened last night’. Her head throbs, her ears ring ( _again_ ), and her left hand is a bright flare of agony when she tries to shift. “Holy shit,” she whimpers, cradling her hand to her chest. “Oww.”

“Darcy?” she hears someone hiss. Darcy turns blindly towards the voice, panicking for a moment when she sees nothing, only to realise that it’s just dark. Her back is cold and wet, and she feels water when she tentatively reaches out, hand coming in contact with a warm body.

“That you, Nat?”

“Yeah,” the woman says, her voice pitched low. “You okay?”

“No,” she whispers, mindful to keep herself quiet. When she cranes her neck, she sees a large opening that shows the deep indigo of the night sky and Darcy suspects they’re hiding in a drain of some kind. “I think some of my fingers might be broken.”

“Damn,” Natasha says. She pats Darcy down gently, probing at her flesh and Darcy bites back a yelp when she prods a deep bruise on her hip.

“Where’s Bucky and Sam?” she asks, squeezing her eyes shut tightly as she rides out Natasha’s gentle inspection.

“In search of transport. Shield’s scouring the Camp, so the truck’s a no-go.”

“Right. How long have I been out?”

“Hard to say. Maybe an hour? The boys left ten minutes ago.”

“Fuck,” she sighs. Her eyelids feel dry- like sandpaper- and there’s a bone-deep weariness in her that makes her wonder if she’ll ever be restful again. “What are we gonna do?”

Natasha is quiet. The little ambient light from outside the drain forms only the most basic of outlines on her face as she stares off into the distance. “I don’t know…” she says. “Everyone we know is trying to kill us.”

“That’s true,” Darcy says. “Though I’m willing to bet it’s not everyone.”

Natasha grimaces. “Enough, though. And Shield-” she breaks off, looking unhappy with herself.

Darcy chews her lip, staring up at Natasha carefully. “Are you okay?”

“I’m fine.”

“Liar,” Darcy accuses. Natasha huffs softly, staring down at her hands, hanging limply between her knees. “What’s wrong?”

She’s doesn’t answer for a long time. Darcy almost gives up on the possibility of getting an answer out of her when she sighs and looks up at the ceiling of their little hidey-hole. “When I escaped the Red Room… I thought I was free. But I’d been a tool for so long… I didn’t know what to do with myself. Ended up working with the wrong people, turned myself back into the weapon I thought I’d escaped. When Shield picked me up, I thought I was finally going straight. Still a weapon, sure, but at least I was working for the right side.” She smiles ruefully. “Guess I’ve just been swapping the KGB for Hydra. And I’d thought I knew whose lies I was telling, but… I guess I can’t tell the difference anymore.”

Darcy pushes herself up with a pained groan, and leans back against the drain beside Natasha. She nudges at her friend with her knee. “Just because Shield is Hydra, doesn’t mean you’re one of them, Nat.”

“I know,” she says. “But that doesn’t change who I’ve been working for.” She looks over at Darcy, face deeply shadowed. “How many of their orders have I followed? How many people have I killed for Hydra?”

Darcy flounders. God, a week ago her biggest concern had been how much longer they could go without filling the gas tank. “I don’t know,” she says, feeling helpless.

“Neither do I.” Natasha breathes out slowly. “I-” she breaks off, glancing out the mouth of their hidey hole.

“What is it?” Darcy whispers. Natasha holds her hand up, and a gun materialises in her hand. She shifts soundlessly into a crouch, weapon pointed towards the mouth of the drain. Darcy holds her breath, heart in her throat; what if it’s Shield, come back to finish the job?

“Don’t shoot me!” a voice hisses from the darkness, and Natasha instantly relaxes.

“Barnes,” she says, and Darcy perks up. “Where’s Sam?”

“He’s in the car,” Bucky says. His silhouette appears in the “Is Darcy awake yet?”

“I’m up,” she says.

“Thank God.” Bucky sounds a little lost, the relief palpable in his voice. Darcy yearns for the simplicity they’d found back in Mexico, before their entire world had been turned on its head all over again. “Can you walk, babydoll?”

She swallows, feeling inexplicably close to tears at the endearment. “Yeah, I think so.”

Natasha stuffs her pistol somewhere in her jacket. “You need help getting out?”

“I think I’m good, thanks,” Darcy murmurs, and she gets gingerly onto her hands and knees, crawling out of the pipe with Natasha on her heels. The knees of her filthy jeans are soaked when she emerges into a large, concrete drainage canal, and her shoulder hurts like a bitch (and _ha_ , but now they make a matching pair, don’t they), but Bucky pulls her into his arms all the same, holding onto her with a desperation that she mirrors.

“I was so scared,” he confesses, his words uttered into the curve of her ear. Darcy swallows back the taste of dust and smoke, and clutches to his jacket like he might somehow drift away.

“Me too,” she whispers. His hands tighten momentarily around her waist, before easing and he draws away. Darcy lets him go reluctantly.

“We need to get going,” he says.

“Then lead the way,” Natasha says, materialising beside them. Bucky nods, and pivots on his heels, limping through the canal; mostly empty but for a sluggish trickle of water. Tall grass pushes between the gaps in the concrete, and the faint smell of polluted, stagnant water seems to linger in the air. Tall wooden fences line each side of the drainage canal, sheltering suburbia from the ugly banality of modern infrastructure. She wonders how they even managed to get here, but decides upon asking at a later date.

Bucky helps her up out of the drain, though the slope of the concrete is honestly gentle enough for Darcy to navigate by herself, and they move quietly through a small copse of trees that spills out into a cul-de-sac, quiet and dead in the middle of the night. She hears the sound of a car turn over quietly, though no lights turn on in response. Natasha huffs a laugh and hurries over to the sedan, hopping into the front passenger seat.

Bucky opens the door for Darcy and she smiles at him gratefully as she slips inside, his face cast in a sickly orange hue by the streetlamps. Inside, the car smells overwhelmingly of strawberry-flavoured air freshener, and the footwell is filled with rubbish; junkmail, old newspapers, empty water bottles and the odd takeout wrapper. She grimaces and shifts on the seat, perching her feet on the raised platform in the middle of the floor.

“Couldn’t you have picked a cleaner car?” she complains. Bucky slides in on the other side, closing the door quietly beside himself as Sam snorts at her.

“Nice to see you too, Lewis,” he says and they drive off, the lights still turned off. “Glad you’re alive.”

“It’s good to see you’re still kicking around too,” she says. She runs her fingers through her hair, wincing at the tangles. “But seriously, you couldn’t have picked something with a little less garbage?”

“We left them money,” Bucky says, as though that answers things.

“More than the car’s worth,” Sam adds. He turns on the headlights two streets down, winding carefully through the area like he’s meant to be there. “We’re doing them a favour, honestly.”

Darcy bites her lip. “Not if they need to go to work tomor- this morning.” The whole ‘stealing cars’ thing still makes her uncomfortable; so far they’ve stuck to older models, too worried about someone being able to trace them through the car’s computers to try for something a bit more high tech. Natasha had touted around the phrase ‘a necessary evil’, but that doesn’t mean she likes it, especially considering they could have been taking cars from people who’d feel the loss of their transport a whole lot less.

“That’s the price we pay. We’re fugitives; or at least, we certainly are now.”

She frowns. “What do you mean?”

“On the radio,” Bucky says, staring out the window like it holds the kept to his secrets. “They just pinned the assassination of a ‘high-ranking Shield official’ on Captain America and Black Widow. Come morning the place will likely be crawling with investigators.”

Her eyes widen. “They’re pinning Fury’s death on you? Are you fucking serious?”

Sam shrugs from the driver’s seat. “Deadly.”

“Damn.” She sighs and closes her eyes. “That’s gonna make things a whole lot harder.”

“Yeah.”

“What are we gonna do?”

“We need to get back to DC,” Sam says grimly. “That’s where Project Insight is. Fury said he’d put it on hold, but after Zola, I doubt that’s really the case.”

“Speaking of,” Darcy says sharply. “What the hell _is_ Insight, exactly?” She glances over at Bucky, but his gaze is fixed on Sam’s headrest, his stare glassy and unseeing. She wonders what he’s remembering. What kind of long-lost demons this whole ordeal has dredged up in his mind.

Sam sighs heavily. “It’s… classified.”

Rage ignites in Darcy’s chest, and if she were sitting behind him, she’d kick his fucking seat. “Fuck that noise, Wilson! In case you haven’t realised, we’re up to our fucking ears in classified shit right now. Shield is _Hydra_. Whatever you _think_ you owe them doesn’t mean _shit_.”

Sam laughs, sharp and mirthless. “You’re right. ‘M sorry… old habits die hard, I guess. Insight is… well. When Fury showed it to me, it was three new helicarriers, equipped with long-range precision guns, hooked up to a network of targeting satellites. He said they could wipe out a problem before it could ever even become one.”

Darcy’s blood runs cold, breath catching in her throat. Violation of basic human rights aside, Insight sounds like a project wholly destined for corruption. “Zola said something about a ‘purification’.”

The car falls silent. The implications are too terrifying for Darcy to truly comprehend.

“We need to work out what’s in Zola’s algorithm,” Natasha says eventually, her husky voice piercing violently through the quiet.

“But how?” Darcy asks. “Neither of us could hack it on the drive, and trying to use it again would just send Shield straight to us.”

“Then we find someone who would know about it. Who in Shield would have had authorisation high enough to launch a domestic missile strike?”

“Maria,” Sam says immediately. Darcy watches his hands tighten on the wheel, the aging rubber squeaking quietly. “Fury trusted her the most; she was his second-in command. With Fury dead, she’d fall into the Acting Director’s position until a replacement was found.”

“No.” Natasha says vehemently. “I refuse to believe it could have been her.”

“Then the only other person with high enough clearance is Alexander Pierce.”

“Forget it. He’ll be right in the middle of that pit of snakes.”

Darcy chews her bottom lip as they talk. This is really beyond her level of experience or expertise, but she feels kind of useless not being able to contribute to the conversation. “He wouldn’t be working alone though, right?” she asks. Natasha twists in her seat to watch her and Darcy shifts uncomfortably. “I mean, he must be pretty high up, yeah? One man couldn’t simply hijack something as big as Project Insight, and people would have eyes on him all the time.... You need to find the weak link.”

Natasha’s brows rise. “They must be using the Lemurian Star to transfer Zola’s algorithm to the targeting satellites.”

“But any one of the crew members could have uploaded it!” Sam huffs. “We’d have to vet too many people- we don’t have enough time for that.”

“No… Jasper Sitwell was on board,” Natasha says slowly. “He’d only been there a day when the pirates hijacked it. And he’d made several short trips onto it in the months prior. I remember thinking it was a little strange.”

“The weak link,” Darcy says. They turn onto the interstate, empty at this time of night with the exception of the odd semi-trailer.

Sam sighs. “I think I’m going to need my wings.”

“And how, pray tell, are you going to get those?” Natasha asks. “Pit of snakes, remember?”

“There’s an old pair in Fort Meade.”

Darcy’s brows rise in surprise. “And you know this how?”

Sam snorts. “I like to keep track of them. Guess the paranoia’s paying off.”

“Aw,” Natasha teases, and punches him lightly in the arm. “I knew I liked you for a reason.”

“Yeah, well don’t hold your breath. Last I knew, they were behind three guarded gates and a twelve-inch steel wall.”

“So,” Natasha says derisively, looking pointedly over their little company, “not a problem, then.”

* * *

Bucky shifts uncomfortably in the straight-backed metal seat, fingers tapping intermittently against the side of his coffee. Darcy watches him carefully from the cover of her aviators (nicked from the glove compartment of their stolen car); he’s been off since last night, and even their little ‘side trip’ to Fort Meade hadn’t been enough to shake him out of whatever fugue state Zola had put him in.

“Hey,” she says, trying to get his attention, but Bucky’s gaze beneath the brim of his hat remains trained on the building entrance. They’ve been waiting for their target to leave for about thirty minutes, and Darcy has felt every second of it. “ _Hey_ ,” she says a little louder, confident that the general hustle and bustle of the café will cover their conversation. Bucky glances over at her momentarily. “You okay?”

“I’m fine.”

 Darcy rolls her eyes. This is starting to feel familiar. “No, you’re not. You’ve taken this whole ‘snake’ thing worse than you did Steve.”

He flinches. Looks down his half-drunk coffee. “I’m fine.”

“Buck-”

“ _Look_ ,” he hisses, glaring at her. Darcy tries not to take it personally. “I thought he was fucking dead, okay?”

“Who, Steve?”

“No. Well- _yes_ \- but no; Zola. I thought I was safe. From the lot of them. And then it turns out the piece of shit had just ‘ascended to another place of existence’. It pisses me off.”

The corner of her lips twitch; introducing Bucky to the sci-fi tv genre had been a joy. He’d especially loved SG-1. “We’ll get them babe. Burn it all to the ground if we have to.”

“I know,” he says grimly. “I just wish we didn’t _have_ to.”

“Same, love.”

He sucks in a sharp breath. “Target acquired,” he says lowly, and Darcy shifts casually in her seat. She tucks a stray piece of hair behind her ear as she follows his line of sight to the unassuming man she has a vague recollection of seeing in New Mexico. He’s talking to Senator Stern; Darcy remembers the shit he’d kicked up about Stark’s suit and is somehow unsurprised by his possible connections to Hydra. Sitwell laughs at something he says.

“ _Acknowledged,_ ” Natasha says over their comms- freshly stolen from Fort Meade. Stern draws Sitwell into some strange facsimile on an embrace and leaves. “ _Make the call, Darcy._ ”

“On it,” she mutters beneath her breath. She pulls up the contact Natasha had saved on her phone, and puts it up to her ear. Out of the corner of her eye, Sitwell fishes his cell phone from the pocket of his suit and dismisses his cronies. She smiles, casually twisting in her seat to see him better.

“ _Yes sir,_ ” Sitwell answers.

“Long time no see, Jack-Booted-Thug-Number-Two. Enjoy lunch? I hear they make a fabulous chai latte.”

He faces away from them, so Darcy can’t see his reaction, but she imagines he looks suitably unnerved. “ _Who is this?_ ”

“The better half of the charming couple in the café.” Sitwell looks back at the other café he’d exited with Stern and Darcy grimaces. “The other café, sweetie.”

He pivots on his feet, and Darcy smiles at him sweetly, giving him a modest little wave with her bandaged hand. Bucky snorts at her. “Howdy.”

Sitwell’s mouth falls open with surprise at the two of them, before his expression hardens. “ _What do you want?_ ”

“There’s an olive sedan around the corner. Fourth space down. We’re going on a roadtrip.”

Sitwell’s face twists into something that could maybe be construed as a smile. He looks smug. “What makes you think I’d listen to you, Lewis?”

She smiles at him, all teeth. It pulls on the cut on her lip- disguised with lipstick and heavy concealer- and she tastes blood in her mouth. She taps at her chest pointedly. “Because something tells me red’s not a good colour on you, Agent.”

The agent glances down and looks suitably intimidated by the little red dot that appears on his tie, courtesy of Natasha. He scans the area, but Natasha must be well hidden because he evidently finds no sign of her. He turns back to Darcy, smiling. “You wouldn’t kill me. Not in front of all these civilians.”

Darcy’s expression hardens. “Take a moment, if you would, to imagine who we’re likely working with. Do you really want to test that hypothesis?”

Sitwell’s face twitches, but he says nothing and she smiles again. “Off you go,” Darcy orders him. “Don’t hang up on me, would you? The good Captain will meet you just around the corner. Try not to act surprised, or I’ll be _very_ disappointed.”

He sets his jaw, glaring at her, but does as she says anyway. Darcy won’t lie; the amount of power she feels right now is invigorating. Like they’re finally on track… it’s a dangerous thought to entertain.

Bucky leaves a small stack of tens beneath his coffee cup and they stand as Sitwell walks carefully down the steps. He visibly blanches when he sees Bucky properly; he entertains a thunderous expression that Darcy finds equal parts intimidating and hot. God, but even the way he _moves_ when he’s angry is captivating, all fluid purpose and unwavering strength and she loves every minute of it.

“Don’t keep us waiting,” Darcy says, sickly sweet over the phone, despite their proximity. She makes a little shooing motion with her free hand, and Sitwell visibly swallows, pivoting on his heel and walking with remarkable composure down the footpath and around the corner. Sam straightens from his slouch against the wall- his face similarly disguised by a cap and sunglasses- and falls into step with the agent.

Darcy pulls the keys to the car from her pocket and unlocks it as they approach, ending the call. On cue, Sam plucks Sitwell’s phone from his hand and dumps it unceremoniously in a bin before opening the car door for the agent and climbing in after him. Bucky hops in on the other side, firmly sandwiching him in and Darcy bites the inside of her cheek to stop herself from laughing at the sight. The passenger door opens, and Natasha takes shotgun. Sitwell makes a soft, unhappy sound, evidently disgruntled by the conspicuous lack of a sniper rifle.

Laser pointers. Gotta love them.

“Sitwell,” Natasha greets the man. He glares at her.

“Agent Romanoff. I don’t know what you four think you’re doing, but-” he breaks off abruptly, and Darcy glances back at them as she reverses out of the parking space, taking care with her broken fingers. Bucky has a gun pressed against the agent’s stomach, his expression hard.

“Comfortable?” Darcy asks them smugly. Sitwell glares at her.

“Where are you taking me?”

“Hm. That’s a good question.” Darcy pulls out into the general traffic. She’s on her best behaviour today, driving like a normal, _boring_ civilian (mostly because her fingers fucking _hurt_ , though she’s not about to admit it). “Where are we going, Nat?”

“Take a right at the next lights,” is all Natasha says in response, slouching in the seat. Darcy does as she’s told, and they drive through the streets of DC in a tense silence, interrupted only by Natasha’s terse instructions and the quiet sounds of the radio, turned down low. They end up in the underground parking of a plain-looking business building, and the five of them pile out of the car.

Darcy tosses the car keys over to Sam, who stays behind with a rueful smile, and follows the other three over to the elevator.

“Where are you taking me?” Sitwell asks again as soon as the doors close behind them. Darcy rolls her eyes.

“Shut up,” Bucky growls from behind him. None of them look up at the CCTV camera.

Blissfully, the elevator doesn’t stop on any other floors, and they get out on the highest floor, walking down the empty corridor to take the stairs. Bucky doesn’t even bother waiting for Darcy to pick the lock on the doors- just kicks them open and forcibly tosses Sitwell outside onto the room. The man staggers, tripping and rolling across the concrete.

“ _Whoa_ ,” Darcy breathes, shocked by the brutal display of strength as Bucky and Natasha march out after the stumbling man. She jogs out after them before the buckled doors can close on her.

“What’s on Zola’s algorithm?” Bucky barks. Sitwell hauls himself up, backing away from them with a strange, almost giddy grin on his face.

“Never heard of it.”

“What were you doing on the Lemurian Star?”

“I was throwing up, I get seasick” Sitwell answers immediately. He doesn’t seem to realise how close he is to the edge of the building, and when he backs into the small ledge, he teeters backwards, arms flailing before Bucky catches him by the lapels of his suit.

They’re very high up, she notes abstractly.

Sitwell glances behind him, evidently realising the same thing. His eyes widen, but he grins at Bucky, looking cocky and self-assured. “Is this little display meant to insinuate that you’re going to throw me off the roof? ‘Cause it’s really not your style, _Sergeant Barnes_.”

Bucky huffs a soft laugh. Smooths his hands over Sitwell’s shoulder, fingers lingering on his little Shield pin. “Oh, buddy,” he croons, voice low and soft. “You don’t know a damn thing about me.”

And then he flattens his palms against the agent’s chest and pushes him straight over the edge.

Sitwell’s screams are sucked up by the wind, and Darcy stares, wide-eyed, at the space where he once stood. “Holy shit,” she breathes, and Bucky glances back at her, expressionless. “I don’t think I’ve ever been so turned on in my life.”

He blinks at her. “Um.”

“When this is over I am giving you the greatest blowjob of your _life_.”

He smirks. “You know how to treat a guy.”

Natasha stares at the two of them, appalled. “How can either of you be real.”

Darcy opens her mouth to reply, but is interrupted by the returning scream of Sitwell, bursting up from the side of the building as Sam tosses him down onto the roof. He lands in a graceless heap on the baked concrete, and the four of them converge on him. He cringes away from Bucky, holding up his hand as though it might actually stop him.

“It’s a program!” Sitwell exclaims, face flushed with fear and adrenalin as he kneels before them. “It’s for choosing Insight’s targets!”

“What kind of targets?” Sam snaps from behind him. Sitwell flinches, chest heaving.

“You! Widow! A TV anchor in Cairo, the Undersecretary of Defense, a high school valedictorian in Iowa City, Bruce Banner, Steven Strange! Anyone who’s a threat to Hydra! Now, or in the future.”

Darcy shares a concerned look with Bucky. “How could it know into the future?” he asks, glaring down at the agent.

Sitwell’s laugh is verging on hysterical. “How could it _not?_ The 21 st Century is a digital book! Zola taught Hydra how to read it.” His smile turns goading, smug. “Your bank records, medical histories, voting patterns, e-mails, phone calls, your damn SAT scores. Zola's algorithm evaluates peoples' past to predict their future.”

“And then?” Sam demands. His EXO suit seems out-of-place with his simple jeans and t-shirt, but no one can deny that he looks just as intimidating as Bucky does.

Sitwell laughs again, and Bucky takes another threatening step towards him. “Oh my God, Pierce is gonna kill me,” Sitwell moans.

“He asked you a question, you Nazi piece of shit!” Bucky snarls. He picks Sitwell up by the front of his shirt, the display of strength so effortless that Darcy’s breath catches in her throat. She marvels at the sight of his fury; she’s never seen him this angry before. Not even when she first met him.

“Then the Insight helicarriers scratch people off the list,” Sitwell says, staring up at Bucky in unmasked fear. If she didn’t know any better, she’d think there was something hopeless in his voice. “A few million at a time.”

 _And this,_ Darcy thinks in resignation _, is why pre-emptive measures like Insight are a terrible fucking idea._

 


	11. Chapter 11

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Honestly by this point maybe I should just remame this fic 'Bucky and the Terrible, Horrible, No Good, Very Bad Day'

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> warnings for- oh hey, more violence! Wow there's certainly a theme going on here...
> 
>  
> 
> (also a big thank-you to bloomingsoftly for the beta! Love ya!)

_June 13 th 2014_

The elevator ride back down to the car is painfully quiet. Bucky is acutely aware of his unsteady breathing, hands shaking by his side. All of them are on edge; the likelihood of Insight launching in less than a day is terrifyingly high, and the inevitability bodes well for no one.

Considering their anxiety, it comes as no surprise when the elevator begins to slow, five floors above the underground carpark. They just can’t catch a break, can they? “Not a word,” Bucky growls as it pulls to a stop, and he presses his gun firmly into the small of the agent’s back. Sitwell stiffens at the threat, and the five of them feign boredom when the door opens. The woman on the other side- short, Asian and carrying a leather briefcase- bites her lip at the crowded little space.

“Going down?” she asks lightly. She looks like an office worker, tiny and harmless. Bucky hopes that’s exactly what she is.

“Yeah,” Natasha replies. The woman smiles and they shuffle around, giving her space enough to get in. She hits the ‘close door’ button, and the elevator continues travelling down. The silence is just as oppressive as before, Bucky and his friends poised for things to turn south. But the woman doesn’t spare them any attention, gaze directed on her phone, and when the doors open again, they pile on out with a tangible air of relief.

“Have a nice day,” the woman says to Natasha, and she waves back wordlessly. They march down to the car and get back in. Natasha takes the wheel this time and Darcy takes shotgun. Sam zip-ties Sitwell’s hands together as soon as they’re in the car, and Bucky’s skin crawls his proximity to the lousy piece of Nazi scum.

“They’ll find us,” Sitwell says as they drive out of the building and back onto the sunny street, finally finding his voice again. “What do you even think you can do?

“Shut up,” he orders. Sitwell glares at him.

“You can’t run. They’ll _find_ you, and then they’ll kill you. Hydra doesn’t like leaks.”

Sam shoots the agent a dark look that matches Bucky’s. “So why don’t you try sticking a cork in it?”

“They’ll kill her,” Sitwell taunts Bucky, ignoring the other man. “If she’s lucky they’ll do it quickly. Is that what you want, sergeant?”

Bucky twists in his seat, and jams his gun up beneath Sitwell’s jaw. The way he goes stiff in fear is nowhere near as satisfying as Bucky would like. “You know,” he says lowly, ignoring the startled ‘woah!’ from Sam, “a lot of shots to the head aren’t fatal. Just extremely disfiguring and very, _very_ painful. You wanna learn which one I might be aiming for?”

Sitwell audibly swallows, eyes squeezed tightly shut, his zip-tied hands pressed against his chest. “Point taken,” he rasps. Bucky smiles at him coldly when he opens his eyes, and returns the gun to its previous position against the agent’s stomach. Silence descends upon the car once again, and Natasha takes a left onto the freeway.

“How are we going to get into the Triskelion?” Darcy asks into the quiet, voice artificially light. Bucky pushes away the rising guilt; he can deal with the ramifications of his behaviour _after_ they’ve saved the world.

 _… If_ they save the world.

“We could use Sitwell to bypass the DNA scanners,” Sam says thoughtfully, assessing at the Hydra agent. “Use him to access the helicarriers and sabotage them from the inside.”

“Whu- are you _crazy_?” Sitwell yelps. “That is a terrible, _terrible_ idea!”

Bucky’s face twists into an angry snarl, but when he tries to speak, the only sound that comes out is a heavy thud and the sound of breaking glass. It takes him a moment to realise that the sounds don’t come from him, but by that point Sitwell is already screaming, pulled straight out the back window. His flailing legs kick Bucky in the head along the way.

“Jesus _Christ!_ ” Darcy screeches in shock.

Bucky shakes his head, glancing backwards, but Sitwell is long gone. The car swerves as Natasha tries to throw off their attacker, but whoever’s on the roof is there to stay.

“Get down!” Sam yells, just as they hear the sound of more thuds, and the bullet that pierces through the roof right above Bucky’s head scrapes along his back, a sharp line of fire that could have very much killed him if he’d been a fraction slower. Their attacker shoots through the roof again, right above where Darcy had been sitting before Natasha had dragged her forwards. Natasha slams on the brakes, wheels screaming in protest.

A dark figure flies off the roof and lands on the freeway in a tumbling roll, flipping lithely back onto their feet. Cars swerve around them, horns blaring, and Bucky swallows back the rising bile in his throat.

He’s muzzled- just like before- eyes hidden by dark goggles, but there’s no mistaking the size of him.

It’s Steve.

Natasha raises an arm, gun materialising in her hand, and Darcy screams out a warning at the exact moment a black Jeep runs straight into the back of them. The force pushes the car forwards, straight into Steve, who jumps back onto the roof of the car. He punches through the roof above Natasha in a cacophony of screaming metal, and wrenches the steering wheel straight out of her hands.

“ _Fuck!_ ” Darcy cries out, jerking away from the woman in surprise. Natasha shoots up through the hole in the roof at Steve, but he’s already gone, jumping back onto the Jeep as it rams into them again.

With the steering gone, the car spins out of control, lurching drunkenly to the left and slamming into the concrete barrier with enough force to lift them up off the ground. “Brace!” Bucky shouts, and he grips at the back of Natasha’s seat with enough force to gouge holes in the foam as the world dissolves into blurs and screams and a sick, lurching feeling in his stomach as gravity temporarily puts itself on hold.

The car rolls once. Twice. Three times before it lands on its back like a flipped turtle.

A momentary lull descends upon the car and Bucky groans, twisting himself upright and ignoring the glass that embeds itself in his hands and knees. “Darcy?” he asks fearfully, heart racing like it wants to tear itself out of his chest.

“ _Fuck_ ,” Darcy moans from the front. Bucky lets out a sob of relief. Beside him, Sam curses and reaches for Bucky blindly. “I- _fuck_.”

“Hang on,” he says grimly, and he kicks the door straight off its hinges, rolling out onto the hot asphalt. He drags Sam out after him, and the man blinks at the glaring sunlight.

“I’m fine,” Sam groans, pushing himself up into a crouch as Natasha crawls out of the jagged mouth of her door. Blood drips down the side of her face, and she swipes it away furiously. “Get your girl out.”

Around them, cars swerve, coming to a stop, and ahead of them, Bucky can see the dark shapes of Steve and the Jeep. He hurries around the car and tears Darcy’s door off, tossing the scrap of metal away without care. “Darce,” he breathes, and she reaches for him unsteadily, face pale, her mouth drawn tight with pain. She yelps as he pulls her from the wreckage, cradling an arm close to her chest. It’s bent in a sickening, unnatural angle.

“Watch out!” Bucky hears someone shout at them, and from the edge of his vision he sees Steve fire something. With a desperate burst of strength, he throws them behind a car just as a rocket hits their vehicle, and Bucky clamps a hand over Darcy’s mouth and nose as the air ignites, the heat searing his windpipe. He keens in pain, eyes watering, and lets go of Darcy as the air clears.

“Bucky?” Darcy asks, patting at his face ineffectually. He tries to give her a smile, and motions for her to move back behind the other cars.

 _Run_ , he mouths at her. His throat is in agony. Every breathe feels like his last, rattling in his throat like a dying thing. Gunshots cut through the air, punching into the cars around them as Steve and his cronies advance. _Run!_ Darcy shakes her head at him, and in despair, he pushes her away. “ _Go!_ ” he rasps, pulling a pair of knives from his boots, his gun long gone, but Darcy doesn’t move.

“I’m not leaving you,” she says stubbornly. Bucky quells the urge to weep. Out of the corner of his eye, he sees Sam and Natasha crouched behind another car, and desperate, Bucky jumps up and throws his knives at their assailants. One goes down, clutching at his throat as blood coats the front of his grey jacket, and his second knife lodges itself in another man’s stomach. He drops his assault rifle, and stumbles backwards as another bullet tears through his chest, courtesy of Natasha.

One of the other men returns fire on their position, and Bucky crouches back down as bullets spray across it, the car vibrating with the force of his shots. Inside, a woman screams, and Bucky’s eyes widen with realisation. _Shit._

Still crouched down, he wrenches open the driver’s door, and reaches over the woman, unbuckling her seatbelt and dragging her out of the car. Blood blossoms from a wound in her side and she weeps at his rough treatment. Bucky’s heartbeat thunders in his ears, hopelessly aware of Steve and his unwavering advance.

He coughs, tasting blood. “Get her out,” he pleads with Darcy, and blessedly, faced with someone in need, Darcy nods. His shoulders sag with relief as she wraps her unbroken arm around the woman’s side.

Bucky wrenches the door off its hinges, metal shrieking in protest, and runs away from her, towards Natasha and Sam, but Steve shoots at him again with the rocket launcher. The missile clips the edge of his makeshift shield and the force of the explosion throws him into a car and straight over the edge of the overpass.

Bucky falls through the air, wind whipping past his face in a soundless scream, and for one shining moment, he feels nothing.

And continues feeling nothing, right up to the point where he flies through the windscreen of a bus. The vehicle lurches, people screaming around him, and the world turns on him again as the bus abruptly jerks in the opposite direction, landing on its side.

He wheezes. Spits out a mouthful of blood and broken glass. Hopes vainly he hasn’t lost any teeth as he takes a moment to regain his breath. His head spins as he pulls himself to his feet, but mercifully, the sensation eases quickly, though he can feel the beginning of a headache forming behind his temple.

Somewhere towards the end of the bus a child is crying hysterically, but the other passengers seem to have it covered. He hears the unwelcome sounds of more gunfire and another guttural explosion and despairingly, Bucky stumbles out of the bus just in time to see Natasha sprint past him, a trail of bullets kicking up dust in her path.

Bucky glances back towards the bridge, and his eyes widen as Steve jumps over the side. He lands without grace or care on a parked car and the metal crumples beneath his weight. His goggles are nowhere to be seen.

Bucky’s breath hitches as Steve’s gaze lands on him, and his posture shifts, shoulders pulling back and straightening. He almost seems to saunter off the crumpled car, his movements sharp and predatory, and Bucky moves away from the bus, desperate to put some space between them and the civilians.

“Steve-” he tries to say, but is cut off by another short spurt of gunfire that abruptly stops as the Hydra agent falls over the side of the overpass, landing in a crumpled heap on the road. Bucky sees Sam scuffle with the last man, but his attention is quickly reclaimed by Steve. His eyes are terrifyingly blank.

“ _Steve!_ ” he tries again, holding up his hands desperately. He has no weapons; no knives, no guns, just his bare hands and brute strength, and when Steve lifts his assault rifle, he knows those won’t help him much. “Steve, you know me!” he pleads. “ _You know me!_ ”

Steve ignores him, and Bucky throws himself behind a car as bullets whiz past where he’d once stood. “Please, Steve! You’re my best friend, don’t do this, please!”

Steve’s answer is another burst of gunfire.

“Barnes!” He hears Sam shout at him, and his eyes widen as something bright and silver flies towards him. The knife smacks into the side of the car hilt-first and clatters to the ground, and he sobs in relief, scrambling for it just as Steve rounds on him. He rolls away, jumping to his feet and runs towards Steve, wrapping a hand around the barrel of the rifle and wrenching it out of Steve’s grip. Bucky throws it away and in the same movement comes up with his other hand, knife aimed for Steve’s gut. Steve blocks it easily, and he almost lazily plucks a pistol from his thigh holster, lifting it up to shoot at Bucky.

Bucky’s eyes widen and he twists to the right. He tries to push the gun away but Steve anticipates the move, and punches Bucky in the chest with his free hand, sending him flying back. Breathless, Bucky rolls with his momentum and launches himself at Steve, throwing him to the ground as bullets tear through his clothing, narrowly missing his flesh.

Magazine empty, Steve tosses the gun away. Bucky tries to stab him in the shoulder- remembering how crippling it had been to him- but Steve blocks it again. He pushes Bucky off him and they roll to their feet. Steve’s eyes are feral, and he attacks Bucky with a knife that seems to have appeared out of nowhere.

The fight devolves into a desperate, savage dance of attack and defend, neither gaining much ground. Bucky can feel himself tiring, body aching from the brute force of Steve’s attacks; the fucker is _strong_.

He aims again at Steve’s stomach and is blocked, and Steve throws him back onto the ground. Bucky’s head smashes against something hard and unforgiving as he falls and his vision blurs. He holds his hands up, anticipating a bullet or a knife or something worse, but nothing comes. Through his shaky vision, he sees someone launch themselves onto Steve, thighs wrapping around his neck.

Brilliant copper catches on the sunlight. _Natasha_.

Bucky rolls onto his knees and closes his eyes, willing his vision to clear. He staggers to his feet just as Steve- sans muzzle- digs his knife deep into the meat of Natasha’s thigh. The woman cries out and her grip on her garrotte wire- futilely wrapped around Steve’s neck- loosens. Steve snarls and reaches up, gripping her arms and carelessly tossing her off him. She lands with a sickening thud against a car.

“Natasha!” Bucky cries out in concern. Steve wheels back on him and kicks Bucky’s knife from his grip. It clatters away, and Steve pulls another gun from his holster. His aim doesn’t waver and Bucky- beaten down and gasping for breath through his damaged lungs- readies himself for death just as Sam descends from the sky like an avenging angel, kicking Steve in the head. Sam’s momentum makes Steve fly to the side, but he regains his feet easily.

“Steve, _please_ ,” Bucky pleads, still propped up on the ground, his legs refusing to hold his weight.

Steve’s upper lip curls, and he raises his pistol again. Bucky hears something metallic scrape, and then a rocket flies over the top of him, aimed straight for Steve. A car explodes and he glances back to see Natasha bare her teeth at him, Steve’s rocket launcher in her bloodied grip.

When Bucky turns back around, Steve is gone.

“No!” he groans. “ _Fuck_.”

“You got that right,” Sam says, and he offers Bucky a hand, helping him stand before hurrying over to Natasha.

He twists around on unsteady legs. “Where’s Darcy?”

“I flew her down off the overpass,” Sam says absently, and all three of them look up as the once distant sound of sirens turns deafening, and multiple black SUV’s- blue lights flashing- pull up, surrounding them. Agents pile out of the cars, weapons raised.

“On your knees!” a man shouts at them. A vivid purple bruise covers half of his jaw. “Get on your knees!”

“Darcy-” Bucky says, still looking around for any sight of her.

“Put your fucking hands up and get on your knees!” the man screams, his face twisting into an ugly snarl. His uniform says Shield, but Bucky doubt’s it and when he hears a high-pitched yelp his stomach drops with dismay.

“Sir!” another man calls out, and he emerges from behind a car with Darcy, her hair twisted viciously in his grip. She shrieks at him, struggling like a mad thing, and the agent jams his gun into the soft space beneath her jaw. Her eyes widen and she falls still.

The other man- the one with the bruise- smirks at him. “On your knees,” he orders, and he nods back at Darcy, “or your girlfriend goes first.”

Bucky’s knees give way without further protest, and the rest of the armoured men surround them. His stomach flips as one of them forces Darcy to her knees in front of him, muzzle pressed so hard against the back of her head that she has to look at the ground. He can see the way her hands shake and wants to throw up. It feels like they’re up before an execution squad.

The bruised man grips at the back of Bucky’s hair and drags his head backwards, peering down at him with a sickening kind of curiosity. He laughs, lips curling into a feral grin. “Christ,” he sneers. “I didn’t really believe it, but you’re the fucking spitting image. You lot just don’t know how to stay dead, do you Barnes?”

“ _Go to hell_.”

One of the other men steps forwards, weapon raised, but the bruised man glances up at the sky, where a news helicopter hovers in the air, watching them. “Put the gun down. Not here,” he snaps, and he glances over at the other man angrily when he doesn’t’ stand down. “ _Not here!_ ”

The man lowers his gun.

Time blurs. The Not-Shield agents cuff them and bundle them all into the back of an armoured truck. Two more Definitely-Hydra agents crowd in with them, their faces hidden by black riot helmets. The doors slam closed behind them and Bucky instantly tries to curl himself into Darcy, desperate for her touch, but one of the agents jabs at him threateningly with what looks like a cattle-prod.

“Don’t touch her,” they say, their voice muffled behind the opaque plastic.

Bucky glares, but complies, and Darcy looks up at him tiredly. He smiles weakly, hoping his fear doesn’t shine through. He can’t see them making it through the next hour.

“Love you,” he says lowly as the truck drives them away. Darcy clenches her jaw and looks up at him defiantly.

“I love you too,” she tells him, not bothering to soften her voice in front of their audience. “I don’t regret a thing.”

Bucky closes his eyes, sinuses burning with the sudden onset of unshed tears. “I… wish I could say the same,” he confesses. Darcy nudges at him with her knee; the only sign of comfort she can afford him.

The truck falls quiet for a time, but Bucky can hear Natasha’s breathing become more and more laboured, blood soaking her jeans and the leather of the seat, dripping down onto the fibreglass.

“Nat?” Sam says worriedly as she lists to the side. He turns on the silent Hydra agents. “We need to get a doctor here. We don't put pressure on that wound she's gonna bleed out here in the truck!”

The agent with the cattle-prod draws it out again and Sam flinches back as it lights up. Wordlessly, they flip their grip and jab it into the chest of the agent beside them. The hapless agent cries out and the other guard lashes out, kicking them in the head. The agent goes limp, collapsing to the floor in an ungainly heap.

Bucky stares at them in shock.

“What.” Darcy says flatly, and the agent reaches up and pulls their helmet off.

“God,” the ~~agent~~ woman (woman agent?) groans, shaking out her hair with a grimace. “That thing was squeezing my brain.”

“Hill,” Sam sighs with palpable relief. “Thank God.”

She smirks, looking smug. “Save the worship for later. I’ve got some fugitives to kidnap.”

* * *

Sometimes, Brock likes to imagine what his life might have been like if he’d never thrown himself in with Hydra. Boring, he’s sure. And safer, probably.

Likely a lot less terrifying too, he thinks to himself as Alexander Pierce emerges from the lift and his sharp eyes land on Brock. Pierce’s gaze narrows and he swallows uncomfortably; delivering the bad news about Wilson and his crew had been… unpleasant. Waiting for the man to arrive at the Bank even moreso. They’d only removed the dead agent from the failed Mexico mission this morning and the image of the idiot’s bloated body is still fresh in his mind.

“Sir,” he says, lowering his eyes respectfully. Pierce snorts at him.

“Agent Rumlow,” he says curtly, and he stalks past him. Brock falls into step beside him as Pierce enters the vault. One of the techs tries to stop him at the door, wringing his hands nervously.

“Sir, he’s… he’s unstable. Erratic.”

Pierce shows no sign of acknowledging his warning, and they march straight on through the door and the ring of armed men surrounding the Asset. It sits, shirtless and restrained, in the Chair, its gaze as empty and distant as usual as a medic tends to its wounds. There’s a deep slash down one of its forearms, and a half-healed cut on its temple.

Pierce towers in front of it, but the Asset doesn’t lift its gaze.

 _Insolent_.

“Mission report,” Pierce says, voice so calm and steady Brock could half fool himself into believing things haven’t just taken a catastrophic turn for the worse.

The Asset doesn’t answer.

“Mission report, _now._ ”

Still, it doesn’t speak. An expression creeps across its face, vaguely unsettling in a way Brock can’t quite pin down. Pierce sighs, and oh-so-casually strikes it across the face, its head snapping back with the force of his backhand. _God_ , but Brock can only _hope_ to be that fucking ballsy.

Finally, the Asset focusses, gaze landing on Pierce, and the fury in its gaze feels like a raging inferno against Brock’s skin. “Who was the man on the bridge?” it asks quietly.

Pierce shifts slightly, the only sign of his uneasiness. “He was a target. One you _failed_ to kill on another assignment.”

The Asset twitches, and it glares up at Pierce with the force of a thousand dying suns. Brock’s mouth goes dry as its hands clench, the restraints on the Chair creaking ominously. “He knew me.”

Pierce sighs again. Drags over a stool and sits down in front of it. “Your work has been a gift to mankind,” he says, and Brock rolls his eyes as Pierce gets into lecture mode. “You shaped this century, and I need you to do it one more time.”

Something sparks in its gaze and Brock grits his teeth. He’s dealt with the Asset for years, but he’s never seen it like this before. But Pierce carries on, unaffected. “Society is at a tipping point between order and chaos. Tomorrow morning we're gonna give it a push. But if you don't do your part, I can't do mine, and Hydra can't give the world the freedom it deserves.”

The Asset’s lip curls in defiance, and the restraints creak again. “He called me _Steve_.”

Pierce stands abruptly, the stool rolling away forlornly. “Prep him.”

The tech who’d spoken before makes an unhappy sound. “So soon? Sir-”

“Just wipe him again and start over!” Pierce snaps. The Asset twitches in its seat, as though about to throw itself at Pierce, and the guards lift up their weapons. It settles, but the tech approaches cautiously, like one would a wild animal. He lifts up a rubber mouth guard and the Asset bares its teeth in a silent snarl, glare directed straight at Pierce.

_If looks could kill._

The seat tilts backwards and the Asset flinches, gaze breaking away as its breathing turns quick and deep, clearly terrified. The halo descends upon it, the contacts glowing ominously. It struggles against its restraints again but they hold strong, and the halo clamps down on its head. Brock watches the mechanism with morbid fascination; he’s never had the privilege of watching a wipe before.

A humming fills the air and the Asset screams, the sound muffled but still unnervingly loud and Brock’s stomach turns despite himself. He’s never heard a human make noises like that before.

Pierce turns and walks away from the spectacle, and Brock follows. He spares the Asset a single backwards glance as the Chair unmakes and dismantles the Asset, little broken pieces put away for someone to glue together again at a later date.

 _Hail Fucking Hydra_ , he thinks, and turns his back on it.


	12. Chapter 12

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A moment of respite before shit hits the fan.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I strongly suggest listening to [Innerbloom by Rufus](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=Tx9zMFodNtA) on repeat for this chapter. You’ll know why when you get to it…
> 
> BY THE BY, I'VE JUST BUMPED THE RATING FOR THIS FIC UP TO EXPLICIT... so you know... proceed with caution. Here be smut.

_December 24 th 1944_

“Buck.”

He looks up from his letter, the edges crumpled and damp. Smiles and wipes at his face, wondering at the water on his fingers; he’s so cold he’d not even realised he was crying. “Hey.”

Steve looks down at him in concern. “You alright?”

He clears his throat. Laughs, the sound husky and _wrong._ “Yeah punk, I’m fine.”

Steve doesn’t look like he believes him, and Bucky prays that he’ll leave. But Steve sits and Bucky bites his lip to hold back a bitter smile. Guess it ain’t the time to believe in Christmas miracles. “That from your family?” Steve asks, nodding at his letter. There’s something close to jealousy in his tone, and Bucky almost wishes they could swap places.

“Yeah,” he says instead. “From Becca.”

Steve brightens and Bucky smiles despite himself; damn punk’s always been sweet on her, even now, while he makes moon-eyes at Carter. He turns back to the letter and his stomach turns. Swallows back the rising bile. “She says her mark faded.”

Steve makes a soft sound of distress. “Shit.”

“Yeah. Poor bastard musta been over here.”

“Is she okay?”

Bucky shrugs. He folds the letter up carefully and tucks it into his coat. “Naw. Didn’t say much about it, but it’s easy to read between the lines.” He sighs and leans back against the tree and stares up at the stars, so disarmingly bright and clean. So out of place when Bucky hasn’t bathed for five days and his breath smells like death. What a Christmas. “Times like these, it makes me almost grateful I doesn’t have anything,” he confesses to the sky. Steve shifts beside him.

“Don’t say that, Buck-”

“Why not? It’s so… cruel. Getting’ a promise like that an’ havin’ it broken before you can even see ‘em. What’s even the fucking point, if it turns out it ain’t fate after all?”

Steve is quiet for a long moment and Bucky closes his eyes, breathing in the smell of mud, sweat and wood smoke, the cold air burning his nose. Fuck. What he wouldn’t do to be back home, clean and happy as his family hang stockings up above the mantle. Instead they’re stuck here, waiting for a war to end, praying the enemy won’t stumble across their camp while they’re half-frozen and drunk (or at least, the rest of the men are. Whatever’s running through his and Steve’s veins seems to deny him even that minor blessing).

“You ever wonder what you’ll do when this is over?” Steve asks suddenly, his voice pitched low. Bucky huffs a laugh and folds his arms, hands tucked into his ‘pits to try and gets some feeling back into them.

“Dunno,” he says. “Get fat and old, I guess.”

Steve snorts, his breath misting as he laughs. “That’s one thing to hope for, I guess.”

“Yeah,” Bucky sighs. He turns his gaze down to his muddy boots. Bites his lip and confesses quietly, “Truth be told, Stevie, I don’t really see this war ending for us.”

Steve twists, staring at Bucky with a mix of confusion and concern. “What?”

Bucky stares at him sadly. “We’re blank, Steve. Why’d fate not bother giving us one if it expected us to live through this?”

Steve’s forehead creases. “A mark’s no guarantee, Bucky. God- jus’ look at Becca. Never met the fella and he died anyway. You can’t go thinking like that, or fate’s just gonna live down to that expectation.”

He huffs and looks away. “Self-fulfilling prophecy.”

“You’re damn right. We’ll get out of this Buck, just you wait. We’re gonna grow fat and old together.”

Bucky laughs, and claps Steve on the shoulder. “Til the end of the line, buddy.”

He’d be wrong, of course. But then again, Bucky had been wrong about a lot of things.

* * *

_June 13 th 2014_

Bucky watches from across the table as Fury stares at a photograph of the man called Alexander Pierce. He shakes his head ruefully, looking unnervingly harmless in his soft grey cardigan.

“This man _declined_ the Nobel Peace Prize. He said, ‘Peace wasn't an achievement, it was a _responsibility_.’” The photograph flutters down onto the table and Bucky studies the picture curiously; the guy could have been an older version of Steve. “See, it's stuff like this that gives me trust issues.”

Beside him- looking considerably cleaner, though no less battered - Darcy snorts. “I’m sure that’s the only reason,” she mutters beneath her breath, so low that even Bucky struggles to hear her. He nudges at her foot beneath the table, but can’t stop himself from smirking.

“We need to stop the launch,” Natasha says, pointedly ignoring the pair of them. Sam sits beside her, a proprietary hand resting on her shoulder; miraculously, Sam seems to be the only one of them who’s gotten away with only a few minor cuts and scrapes.

Fury’s lips twist sourly, and not for the first time, Bucky marvels at the fact that the man is still alive. It seems to be something of a habit regarding the people he knows. People these days just don’t know how to stay dead.

“I don't think the Council's accepting my calls anymore,” Fury remarks dryly. He opens the plastic briefcase in front of him and twists it around for them to see. Inside, sitting innocuously in their foam packaging, are three glass computer chips. From where Bucky sits, they look identical, but he’s hardly an expert.

“What are they for?” Darcy asks curiously.

“The helicarriers,” Maria explains, smiling grimly. “Once the carriers reach three thousand feet, they’ll triangulate with the Insight satellites, becoming fully weaponised.” She turns around her laptop, and on the screen a simulation of the process plays for them.

Darcy nods. “Problematic. Okay. And these ones won’t ensure Hydra’s world domination?”

Maria’s lips press together, as though trying to hide a smile. The woman seems to have taken a shining to Darcy. “Yes. They’ll cripple the system.”

“We need to breach those carriers and replace their targeting blades with our own,” Fury continues, and on Maria’s computer she pulls up the blueprints of the helicarriers for them.

“One or two won't cut it,” Maria adds. “We need to link all three carriers for this to work, because if even one of those ships remains operational a whole lot of people are gonna die.”

The table falls into an uneasy silence. Insight launches tomorrow morning, and the deadline (ha ha) hangs heavy on their minds.

“We have to assume everyone aboard those carriers is HYDRA,” Fury says grimly. “We need to get past them, insert the server blades, and maybe, just maybe, we can salvage what's left-”

Anger shoots through him, bright and sharp. “ _Salvage?_ ” Bucky snaps. “Are you kidding me? You’re not salvaging _anything_ from this; the only way to get rid of Hydra is to burn them out. We’re razing Shield to the fucking ground.”

“We are?” Darcy says with surprise, straightening in her seat.

“Shield has nothing to do with this-”

“Shield has _everything_ to do with this!” he growls. How can Fury still be so blind? “Shield is rotten- right to the core! Those helicarriers- they’re a match made in heaven for those bastards!”

“Insight was intended to ensure world peace!”

“On whose agenda, Fury? Yours, or Hydra’s? Because from where I’m standing they’re one and the same. Hydra turned Shield into a festering cesspit, and no one even noticed!”

“Why do you think we're meeting in this cave?” Fury asks incredulously. “ _I noticed_.”

“Oh yeah?” Bucky says bitterly. “And how many people had to pay the price before you did?”

Fury studies him quietly and Bucky feels like he’s been stripped right to the bone. “Look, I didn’t know about Rogers.”

Bucky flinches. Sets his jaw stubbornly. “This isn’t _about_ Steve,” he growls. “This is about the Nazi organisation that’s been living under your nose since Shield _started_. Shield _is_ Hydra, and Hydra is Shield. It all goes down.”

“He’s right, sir,” Maria says, looking guilty for even admitting it. Fury’s shoulders sink, but he looks over at Natasha and Sam, as though hoping for some kind of backup.

“Don’t look at me,” Sam says, holding up his hands as Natasha shrugs at him. “You know where my loyalties lie, and it isn’t with some faceless organisation.”

Fury sighs and gives them a rueful smile. “Then I guess you’re calling the shots,” he tells them. Bucky’s shoulders sag with relief. Fury stands up gingerly, and a doctor appears seemingly from nowhere, only to be waved off by the man. “I can walk on my own,” he grumbles, and the doctor sighs and follows him out with a familiar, long-suffering look on his face.

“So…” Natasha says once the ex-Director is gone. “Any thoughts?”

* * *

They don’t seem to plan for long; beyond ‘get on the helicarriers and replace the blades’, there doesn’t seem to be much of a plan. Which is a little distressing, but it’s not like it’s something he’s unfamiliar with; Steve’s plans- particularly when Carter or Philips weren’t around- were largely of the rip-shit-or-bust variety. So he’s used to it, really… Bucky just would have hoped that maybe Sam (or hell, even Maria) could come up with something a little more specific.

When they’re finished, Maria banishes them off to their respective quarters. “You all look like death warmed over,” she tells them wryly. “Get some sleep, for the love of God.”

None of them argue; it’s a fair observation, all things considered.

Darcy drags him off, obviously intent on getting some shut-eye, and Bucky follows along helplessly. He watches her as they walk down the dark corridor to their assigned room (an old storage room with a few cots thrown in that Maria had been kind enough to offer them), taking in the way her hair curls at the nape of her neck, a few strands trapped by her sling. Her arm is stuck in a cast, and her face looks even more busted than before. He hates it; hates to see her hurt like this. Hates what he’s going to ask her to do for him even more.

“Christ,” Darcy groans as they enter the room and takes in the cots. “These bring me back to fourth grade camp; we had camp beds just like these.” Bucky smiles and closes the door quietly behind them. Darcy turns back to him when he doesn’t answer. “What’s wrong?”

“I… you’re not going to like it.”

Her eyes narrow. “You want me to stay here.”

“Yes.”

“Bucky-”

“Darcy, please-”

“ _No_ , Bucky. You can’t ask me to do that! We’re in this together!”

“You’re injured, Darce, and a civilian.”

“So?” she snaps, drawing in close. “This isn’t my first rodeo! You can’t just ask me to sit back here while the world crumbles around us!”

“I just want you to be safe.”

“In less than twelve hours, three airships capable of genocide will being going up in the air! _No one_ is safe!”

Bucky stares at her hopelessly. “Please,” he breathes. “I… I can’t let you get hurt again. If something were to happen to you, I’d-”

“You think that’s not a two way street?” Darcy snarls at him. She looks radiant in her anger, hair frayed and eyes glittering dangerously. “You think my world wouldn’t end if I lost you too?”

“No- that’s not what I meant, but you’re _hurt_. You can’t protect yourself like you could those other times.”

“So? So are you!”

“Yeah, but-”

“But what, Bucky? You’re special?”

“Yes!” he half-shouts, and Darcy blanches, blinking at him in shock. He softens his voice, looking away. “Yes. I _am_ special.”

Darcy’s mouth opens and closes, for once lost for words. “I… don’t understand.”

He steps away from her and runs his hands through his hair. He’s never uttered the truth to anyone. Not even Steve, back in the forties. “When I was taken prisoner, in 1943, Zola experimented on me. He- he gave me a serum. Like Steve’s- but weaker, I guess. I’m stronger, heal faster, need less sleep. The wound Steve gave me in Mexico is already half-healed.”

Darcy reaches out for him and he fights the urge to flinch. “Bucky…” She licks her lips, studying him intently as she takes his face in her hand. Her thumb brushes over the corner of his lips and he swallows thickly. “Why didn’t you tell me?”

“Because I _hate_ it,” he murmurs. “I’m not like Steve was- I never wanted this! Zola… he- he turned me into a weapon and it- it _sickens_ me.”

“He said you could have been his greatest work,” she muses, and Bucky looks down at the ground.

“I can survive this,” he tells her. “I _will_ survive this. But I’m fucking _terrified_ to think that you might not. Please, Darcy. I’m begging you.”

She closes her eyes and bends her head, sighing. “Okay,” she says, relenting. Bucky sobs with relief and pulls her in for a hug, as tight as he dares with their injuries.

“Thank-you,” he breathes into her hair, uncaring that his face is wet. “ _Thank-you._ ”

“I hate this,” she confesses against his collarbone. “Why did Fury ever think Insight was a good idea?”

“I don’t know, but when we’re done, I’ll make sure no one can get away with it ever again.”

“I don’t doubt it. Hydra can burn in hell.”

“Amen,” he laughs. Darcy hums, her breath hot against his skin, and Bucky feels the mood in the room abruptly shift. He bites back a smile as her good arm strays downwards, slipping beneath his shirt. He sucks in a sharp breath at the contact, and pulls away from her just far enough to take her face in his hands and kiss her.

Darcy makes a soft, low sound against his mouth, and her hand creeps further up his shirt. Shivers run down his spine as she scrapes her nails lightly across his skin, and he runs his tongue across her upper lip, mindful of their various wounds.

“Want you,” she breathes against his mouth. “Need you.”

Bucky answers by pulling away from her and tugging off his shirt. Darcy grins wickedly, and she kisses him again, using her hand to push him back against the wall. Her mouth trails down his jaw, teeth brushing against the tendons in his neck as he tilts his head back. He clutches at her waist like a drowning man, shivering and moaning quietly as she sucks a line of bruises over his collarbone.

She fumbles with his belt, clumsy with just her one working hand, and Bucky nudges her fingers away to do the job for her, his hands shaking when she kneels before him. Her hot mouth seems to burn a hole through the soft ‘v’ of his hips, and he slams his head back against the concrete when she take him in her mouth.

“Fuck,” he whispers, the words like a prayer. A confession of his adoration. “Fuck- _fuck!_ ” Darcy hums around his cock, and Bucky fights to stop his knees from buckling. He weaves his fingers through her soft hair and closes his eyes. He wants to memorise this moment. Etch the feel of her- the sound of her- into the space between his ribs. Immortalise her so she can never be forgotten.

When he feels close to the edge, he pulls her off, crumpling to his knees before her. She smiles against his mouth when he draws her in for a kiss, and he tastes himself on her tongue, bitter and salty. “I love you,” he professes against her skin. “ _I love you_.”

Darcy brushes her knuckles across his mark on his ribs and he shudders at the touch. “I know,” she says simply. He smiles at her helplessly, and helps her out of her clothes. Lays her down on the floor, bundles of scratchy blankets the only thing between them and the cold, hard concrete.

His hand slips between her legs, stroking at the slick that gathers there with practiced motions as he mouths at her breast and she gasps, curling up into his touch. Bucky works her to her peak and, enraptured, watches her tumble straight over the edge, her body drawing taut for one long, glorious moment before she collapses, loose-limbed and panting. He withdraws his hand and kisses her whilst he waits for her to come back down to Earth, smearing the slick on his fingers across her breasts as he kneads at the soft flesh, her nipples pebbling beneath his touch.

Finally, she moves. “On your back,” she orders him, mouth curling slyly, and Bucky complies without question. Darcy’s smile is warm and a little sad- a little desperate- as she straddles him, and she runs her good hand down his chest, nails scratching lightly at his skin. He shivers at her ministrations.

“Darcy,” he pleads, and her smile turns smug. She reaches down. Takes him in her hand, and he bites back a moan as she slides down onto him, her cunt hot and tight and so wonderfully familiar. She closes her eyes at the stretch, biting down on her plush bottom lip and Bucky grips her thighs tightly, like somehow she might float away.

When she moves, it feels like a revelation, and he loses himself in the feel of her, meeting her movements with thrusts of his own, and they fall into a rhythm that is as easy as breathing, these days. He watches her; studies the way her heavy breasts bounce, the way her fingers rub her clit just the way she likes it, the way she bites down on her lip and tilts her head back. Wishes the moment would never end.

“Come back to me,” she breathes, face red with exertion as she nears her end. “Don’t leave me.”

Bucky nods, throat closing as his eyes burn. “I promise,” he gasps.

“ _Haa_ \- if you- if you don’t, I’ll never forgive you,” she says, and he squeezes his eyes closed to mask the tears that threaten to fall. She rakes her nails viciously down his chest and he thrusts up into her hard in response.

“ _Promise_ ,” he says, because it’s the only thing he can think of to say, and Darcy gasps above him, her body stiffening again as she comes, cunt clenching down on him. He follows not long after, and they collapse onto the floor, limbs tangled together like they can’t remember whose is whose. Their tiny room falls quiet, and Bucky closes his eyes when Darcy begins to cry.

“Please don’t die,” she sobs against his chest, sweat still drying on their skin. “I don’t… I can’t-”

“I know,” Bucky says, and he holds her tightly even as he feels tears of his own roll down his face. He prays to whatever god may be listening to let him keep his promise. “Baby, I know.”

* * *

_June 14 th 2014_

Dawn breaks crisp and clear on their little hidey-hole. Bucky wakes early, feeling restless and claustrophobic, and leaves Darcy to their little nest of blankets on the floor, closing the door behind him quietly. He wanders down the halls with only a vague idea of where he wants to go in his mind, and comes across the stairs almost by accident. Remembering the low safety rails on the top of the wall, he takes them two at a time. They end at a door that looks a lot like a fire escape, though no alarm sounds when he opens it.

Despite the early hour, the air outside is already warm, but he smiles up at the clear blue sky anyway, and wanders along the wall. The forest around them is lush and green, and a gently breeze blows through it, the sound of rustling leaves comforting. He leans against the metal railing and stares down the wall thoughtfully.

Today is the day.

The day when the fate of millions will rest in his unworthy hands. He wonders if any of them have even an inkling of how terrible this could all turn out. Hopes they never will, though he somehow doubts it. Though the sleep has cleared his head, he can’t shake the pit of dread that’s settled in his stomach like a lead weight. He’d promised Darcy he’d come back to her, but both of them know that it’s hardly a guarantee.

“Hey.”

Bucky looks up at Sam and smiles. “Hey.”

“You alright?”

“Yeah,” he sighs, and turns back to stare at the forest. Birds flit through the greenery, and Bucky envies them for their freedom. “I’m fine. Just worried… I asked Darcy to stay.”

Sam snorts. “Bet she took that well.”

“Like a lead balloon. But in the end she agreed.”

“That’s good, man.” Sam breathes out slowly, hands shoved into the pockets of his jeans.

“Are you scared?”

Sam smiles wryly. “Fucking terrified. Fate of the world… It’s a lot to take in, you know?”

“You took on the Chitauri and won,” Bucky points out, and Sam rolls his eyes at him.

“And I was terrified then, too. The team was a mess. I didn’t know anyone- didn’t _trust_ anyone. Hell, I barely trusted myself.” He nudges Bucky lightly in the side. “It’s different this time, though.”

“Yeah?” Bucky asks, eyebrow raised. “How so?”

“Well for one, how many times have we nearly died together the last two days? I _trust_ you, man. I know you’ll have my back when I need it.”

He smiles, touched. “Thanks. And for what it’s worth, I feel the same.”

Sam nods and looks back out over the wall. “He’s gonna be there, you know.”

Bucky snorts and sends him the side-eye. “I know… if I have to, I’ll stop him. But I won’t kill him.”

 Sam looks away. “I thought that might be the case. But Bucky, you know he’s not gonna have the same reservations.”

“I know... I just don’t care.”

Sam falls quiet, and Bucky can feel his gaze on him like a physical thing. “Did you love him?” he asks eventually, his voice low and cautious. Bucky laughs and shakes his head.

“… No? Not like _that_ , anyway. But it was always us, you know? Steve and Bucky, together ‘til the end of the line. Before the war, I always thought we’d grow old and fat together.”

Sam snorts in amusement. “Bet you both would’ve made quite the pair.”

Bucky rolls his eyes and grins. “You’re not wrong.” He sobers. “Damn punk always found himself in the middle of fights he couldn’t finish…. Figures that’s what he’d fall into after the war.”

Sam reaches out, clasping him lightly on the shoulder. “We’ll get out of this, man. Just you wait and see.”

“We’d better,” Bucky drawls. “I don’t think Darcy’d let me live it down if I died.”

Sam grins at him. “I’m sure.”

Bucky nods over at the fire escape. “C’mon, we’d better get ready.”

“Yessir!” Sam says cheekily, and he shoots Bucky a lazy salute.

“You’re an asshole,” Bucky tells him seriously as he takes the stairs back down. Sam’s laughter echoes off the walls, and Bucky wonders if they might make it out of this after all.

 


	13. Chapter 13

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> How many times can shit hit the fan before the fan stops turning, do you think?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> whelp.... I majorly fell off the bandwagon there folks. Sorry about that. Been a big few months; got offered a job in England back in May, and I've been so busy in the months in between that I've really been unable to find the time and or inspiration to write (in other news, I've moved to England! haha). I don't know if much will change; school here starts up next month, and I'm going to be fairly flat out p. much up until Christmas... but we'll see :) At the very least, most of the next chapter is written; there's just a few extra scenes I'm trying to fit in ^.^

_June 14 th 2014_

Standing on the bridge with Fury, Darcy watches her partner leave with the uncanny knowledge that he won’t be returning whole. Or, well, less whole than he is already.

It’s an unpleasant thought; one she savagely supresses with the unwavering confidence of someone whose been dragged through hell and back with the man. She knows Bucky. Knows he’ll do whatever it takes to save his best friend, and in a way it makes her jealous. Makes her seethe with an irrational envy for a man so twisted and warped by powers he can’t control that he couldn’t even recognise his own brother. It’s stupid and it’s petty, and she’ll never actually begrudge Bucky or Steve for it, but she’ll be the first to admit that she’s not perfect. If she could, Darcy would run away with Bucky and hide in the depths of the wilderness and wait for this whole mess to boil over.

But she can’t, and she won’t. Insight is bigger than either of them; terrifying in its magnitude. They can’t let Hydra win and besides, it’s not like Darcy’s run from this kind of thing before.

Which is why it _rankles_ so much to be left behind. She gets it of course. She’s injured, and there’s not much she can really do against combat trained Shield agents (in comparison to Natasha or Bucky); as was evidenced in her almost pitiful struggle against that Shieldra Agent. But she won’t be the pining princess, stuck in her tower as she watches her boy get hurt across enemy lines.

She turns to Fury as the four of them disappear into the forest. “Fury.”

The man looks up at her from his wheelchair, which he had taken to with extremely bad grace. “Lewis,” he says warily. She stares down at him.

“If he- if _any_ of them are hurt in this, I just want you to know that it’s on your head.”

He sighs with the weariness of a man much used to her brand of dramatics. “They’d have pushed through with it regardless, you realise? The Council was determined to avoid another Manhattan, and believe me, at the time this seemed like the lesser of two evils.

Darcy clenches her fists to hide the wat they shake, but she doesn’t say anything more. She’s angry and frightened and looking for someone to blame. Fury sighs again, and motions to the doctor behind him to move him; she does so with a nervous nod, glancing up at the sky with trepidation. Darcy watches them leave, but doesn’t follow; she wants to appreciate the sky a little longer, while it’s still safe.

(And it’s horrible to think of them failing, but her mind is filled with ungainly what if’s and maybe’s.)

“Barnes,” she says to the glorified drainage canal, “if you don’t come back, I’ll fucking kill you myself.”

 

* * *

 

The atrium is light and airy in all the right ways, and Natasha’s heels click across the marble floors with a pleasing level of gravitas. Her leg aches fiercely, even with the levels of painkillers she’s been hooked up to, but she manages to walk without limping. Thank-you Red Room for that uncanny ability.

“It’s lovely to see you, Miss Hawley,” Councilman Rockwell says pleasantly. “How are your boys?”

Natasha’s smile is sharp-edged; it’s difficult to forget that these are the people who agreed to nuke Manhattan. Among other things. “They’re doing well,” she says. Her voice sounds alien to her, and beneath the mesh, her face itches maddeningly. Rockwell looks mildly put out when she makes no further attempt to speak to him, but not surprised.

Seeing Pierce come down to meet them is a study in patience for her. There’s nothing she’d like more than to twist at the mechanism on her ring and pump his hand full of dendrotoxin when she shakes it, but she restrains herself.

“And how was your flight?” Pierce asks her as they walk through the atrium, their party flanked by several armed guards that Natasha doesn’t doubt for a second are Hydra.

“Lovely,” she says, taking care to keep her voice steady and even. “The ride from the airport, less so.”

“Sadly, Shield can’t control everything,” Pierce tells her, and Natasha taps her fingers on her handbag.

“Including Captain America,” Rockwell snipes on Pierce’s left, and Natasha presses her lips together tightly to stop herself from laughing.

 _You poor bastards. You have no idea_.

 

* * *

 

“I’ve been parking there for two months.”

Robert frowns at Moore. “But it’s _his spot_.”

“So where’s he been?”

He grimaces; he likes Moore, but some things (like designated parking spaces) are just sacred. “I think Afghanistan?”

“Negative, DT-6, the pattern is full,” Moore says into his earpiece before turning back to Robert. “Well, he could have said something.”

Moore’s got him there; Nadir could have at least told them where he was going, considering how _long_ the assignment is. He tries to speak, when a sharp, high-pitched sound screams through their earpieces, and all three of them flinch, dragging the pieces off their heads on reflex.

Robert looks over their feed, but there’s nothing out of the ordinary to see. “Must be the dish,” he says. Moore sighs.

“I’ll check it out,” he says, and stands. Robert turns his attention back to his work, and is surprised when he hears someone from the door say ‘excuse us’. He glances over and blanches at the sight of Captain America at the door. He’s flanked by Agent Hill and some guy he’s never seen before, their weapons raised.

Moore backs away from the door jerkily, his hands raised, and the three of them march right on in.

 

* * *

 

 “Take me with you.”

“No.”

Darcy narrows her eyes, glaring down at Fury. “Take me with you.”

He stares at her flatly. “ _No_ ,” he repeats. “Lewis, if you think for a second I’m letting you onto my helicopter, you’ve more screws loose than I thought.”

She grins at him, all teeth. “I’ve been more involved in this whole mess than you have Fury. I _deserve_ to be on that helicopter.”

His eye flashes, and for a moment Darcy wonders if she’s stepped over a line, before ruthlessly quelling the thought. “And we are all very grateful for all the work you’ve done, Lewis, but don’t mistake your participation so far as something I approve of. As far as I’m concerned, you’re not leaving this compound for the next _week_.”

Darcy grits her teeth. “You have no right to leave me out of this.”

“I have _every. Right,_ ” Fury growls, imposing even in his wheelchair. “This isn’t your fight anymore.”

“ _Sure_ ,” she says scathingly. “I mean, it’s not like you’ve sent my partner off to fight your war or anything.”

“Need I remind you,” Fury says, eye narrowed, “that it was _his_ war first.”

She stares at him, unimpressed. “A war for which he was _conscripted_.”

“Semantics.”

Anger flickers, deep in her gut, and Darcy tamps it down. _Save it for later_. “Not to him, it isn’t.”

Fury’s expression turns impassive. “Forget it. If _Barnes_ didn’t want you to go, what did you think I would say?”

She closes her eyes; she’s so angry it hurts to breathe, and the urge to hit something is almost overwhelming. “Screw. You.”

“Oh yes. Very mature, Miss Lewis.”

Her upper lip curls with contempt. She _knows_ she’s not handling this maturely, but there’s a restlessness in her bones that refuses to be calmed. She breathes out slowly. “Please.”

If anything, Fury’s glare intensifies. Behind them, one of his doctors watches them with an unreadable expression on her face, hands stuffed in the pockets of her jacket. Her gaze darts between the two of them as they argue. Something about her body language makes Darcy pause, and she tilts her head in question at the woman. The doctor stiffens at the attention, and something in her face seems to harden as her eyes fall back down onto Fury.

Darcy’s in motion before the woman even pulls her hands from her pockets, launching herself towards a startled Fury and wrenching him onto the floor with a wordless cry. The syringe in the doctor’s hand swings through empty air and Darcy uses her momentum to kick out, slamming her foot into the other woman’s knee. The doctor cries out in pain as her legs buckle and she falls, but her grip on the syringe doesn’t falter. Darcy stomps savagely on her wrist and it skitters across the cold concrete. The woman screams with inarticulate rage, and she rolls onto her front, trying to lunge for it, but Darcy throws herself down on her and with what little she remembers of her self-defence lessons with Natasha, manages to pin her arm painfully behind her back with her good arm. Darcy doubts the doctor’s a trained combatant; just an opportunistic one.

“No!” the woman screams, bucking ineffectually beneath Darcy. She pulls the doctor’s arm up higher and she screams again. “No! I have to!”

Fury stands up on shaky legs and limps over to the syringe, kicking it away and it disappears beneath a filing cabinet. The doctor cries out in dismay and slumps, the fight disappearing from her almost immediately.

“I thought you said you’d vetted all your staff,” Darcy huffs accusingly. Fury looks on sourly.

“I _did_.”

“Guess you weren’t as thorough as you’d have liked…. What was in that?” Darcy asks, voice brusque. The doctor sobs.

“Please,” she weeps. “ _Please_ , if they find out he’s still alive they’ll kill her!”

Darcy glances up at Fury, suddenly unsure. “Who?”

“My daughter!”

She stares down at the woman, aghast. “And you… think they’ll keep her alive anyway? We’re talking about _Hydra_ here.”

“Fuck you!”

“Right,” she sighs. “Does Hydra know Fury’s still alive?” To press her point, Darcy bears her weight down on the woman’s arm and she makes a low, wounded sound.

“No…” she sobs, and the tense ball of nerves in Darcy’s chest eases ever so slightly. “No communication devices… I couldn’t pass the message on.”

“Do you think they suspect?”

“No… I was… was a minor problem for them.”

“Then why bother?”

“They’ll win!” she hisses, twisting her head back to glare at Darcy; her face is tear-streaked and splotchy. Above them, Fury scoffs. “And when they realise I let him live, they’ll kill her.”

“Ye of little faith,” Darcy laughs mirthlessly. She glances up at Fury. “What do we do with her?”

Fury sighs and walks gingerly over to the table, sitting at the edge of it as he watches them. “Why didn’t you come to me, Thuy?”

Thuystiffens. “I didn’t- I didn’t know how far it could go. Didn’t think you’d believe me. I still don’t know why they didn’t just kill me in the first place.”

Darcy raises her brows pointedly at the man and he scowls. “Not a word,” he orders her. She rolls her eyes.

“You got any cuffs?”

He stares at her flatly. “Do I _look_ like I got any cuffs, Lewis?”

She rolls her eyes. Who can even tell underneath all that leather? “Then what the hell am I meant to do with her?”

The corner of his lips curls upwards, looking smug. “You’re the one who wanted to come with me. You tell me.”

 _Asshole._ “This would have been so much easier if I still had my taser.” She glances down at the restrained doctor uncomfortably. If she were Natasha, she probably would have slammed the woman’s head against the concrete to concuss her and that would be that, but the move seems… unnecessarily violent. “Are they guarding her right now? Your daughter?” she asks, and Thuy twitches.

“I don’t know,” she admits. “She’s staying with my ex; he has custody of her.”

“And he’s not Hydra?”

“No,” she hisses. “If he were, I’d gut the bastard myself.”

“Right,” Darcy sighs in relief. “So it’s not a pressing issue. When this is over, we can… I don’t know. Find her. Keep her safe. In the Tower if we have to. Man, I’ll go and pick her up now if I have to.”

All the tension bleeds out of her. “Please.”

“Are you going to try something stupid?”

“No,” Thuy says, and Darcy takes a chance and trusts her. She levers herself of the woman with only minor difficulty, grimacing at all the aches and pains that make themselves known as she does so. Thuy sits up, but doesn’t attempt to get up off the floor. Her face is beet red with shame, and Darcy tries not to feel guilty; they’re all just trying to make the most out of a shit situation.

“They’ll win,” she tells Thuy. The doctor stares off to the side and says nothing, and Darcy’s not sure if she’s trying to reassure Thuy or herself.

“I need to leave,” Fury says, checking his watch. Darcy straightens.

“Take me with you,” she demands again.

He’s quiet for a long moment, before sighing and closing his eye tiredly. “ _Fine_ ,” he sighs, and Darcy bites the side of her cheek to stop herself from crowing in victory. “At least I know where your loyalties lie. But if you die, I want it on record that it was _your_ choice.”

She grins at him, all teeth.

 

* * *

 

The champagne, Natasha thinks, is a nice- if premature- touch. She pretends to sip at it whilst Pierce and the other councilmen primp and posture, and wonders if they feel like they’re on top of the world right now… and how much it will take them to topple.

Her gaze wands back to the countdown on display ( _INSIGHT LAUNCH 2:09:05)_ and refuses to think of Sam, and how little it might take in the end to make _him_ topple.

“I know the road hasn’t exactly been smooth, and some of you would have gladly kicked me out of the car along the way” Pierce says to them, like he’s not two hours early to the punchline. “Finally we’re here, and the world should be grateful.”

Pierce raises his glass in a toast, and Natasha quells the urge to be sick. She _hates_ him. With every ounce of her being. Hates that he is Hydra; hates that he tried to get Nick killed; _hates_ that he and his Nazi organisation have soured the first piece of control she’d thought she’d gained after the Red Room.

The rest of the room drinks the champagne, and Natasha stares down into the golden liquid as Sam’s voice comes in through the PA system.

“ _Attention all Shield agents. This is Sam Wilson_.” Natasha wonders at that; he could have introduced himself as Captain America, though she supposes these days, his name is synonymous with the title anyway. “ _You’ve heard a lot about me over the past few days; some of you were even ordered to hunt me and my friends down. But I am here to expose the truth to you; for the past sixty years, Shield has been infiltrated by Hydra. Alexander Pierce is their leader._ ”

Natasha watches as Pierce’s expression turns cold and hard, the other councilmen glancing between each other uneasily. _The fools_. One of them tries to speak, but Sam keeps talking. “ _The Strike and Insight crew are Hydra as well. I don’t know how many more there are, but know this; Hydra has corrupted every level of Shield.... They could be standing right beside you. They almost have what they want; absolute control. A new world order. They shot Director Fury, and they won’t stop there. If Project Insight is launched today, Hydra will be able to kill anyone who stands in their way… unless we stop them._ ”

Sam pauses as the gravity of his words sinks in, and Natasha could swear she could hear a pin drop, the building is so silent. “ _I know that I’m asking a lot from you, but the price of freedom has always been high. It’s the price that I am willing to pay, and if I’m the only one, then so be it. But I’m willing to bet I’m not._ ”

His transmission cuts off and Natasha feels a surge of affection and anxiety so strong she almost sways on the spot. _That man_ , she thinks to herself, _I bet he spent all of last night coming up with that speech_.

“You smug son of a bitch,” Rockwell says, interrupting Natasha’s thoughts. Pierce glares at them, his expression turning surly even as several members of Strike enter the room; Rollins leads them and Natasha feels a vicious swell of satisfaction at the bruises on his face.

“Arrest him!” Councilman Singh tells Strike. Natasha rolls her eyes; clearly the man’s a little slow on the uptake, though he seems to understand plenty fine when Rollins draws his gun and levels it at Singh’s face.

Pierce smirks. “I guess I’ve got the floor,” he says, and Natasha’s fingers itch with the urge to shoot him.

 

* * *

 

A deathly silence falls on the control room as the last of Captain Wilson’s address echoes through the building. Everyone in the room is glancing around- the nerves palpable- as though someone might just pop up and say ‘jeez, you got me! I’ve been with Hydra all along!’ Andy swallows, his mouth dry with a mix of shock and fear.

He doesn’t want to believe it.

Shield is… Hydra?

No.

Surely not. _Surely not._ Someone would have noticed- someone _must have_ noticed. Would have stopped them! But if they’ve been in Shield all along… well, who’s to say those who _did_ notice weren’t just offed? And Project Insight is… well, it’s not like Jacob ever really liked the idea of it anyway- didn’t like how open it could be to abuse- but debating the morality of Insight was never his job. He’s just a techie, he doesn’t _ask_ those kinds of questions.

It scarcely occurs to him that Captain Wilson might be lying to them; the guy is Captain America, for crying out loud. He’s an _Avenger_.

He stares at the countdown; just over two hours until Insight launches. Two hours. It’s a long time, really. A long time for something to disrupt Hydra’s plans.

Though, it doesn’t feel like it when out of the corner of his eye he sees an agent dressed in black enter the room and march through the desks.

Black.

Strike uniform.

Andy is certain his heart is about to jump straight out of his chest. It almost stops altogether when the Strike agent stops behind him. It’s Rumlow, he realises. Not one of the nastiest among them, but it’s hard to remember that when the guy’s glaring down at you with venom in his eyes and biceps bigger than Andy’s thighs.

“Pre-empt the launch sequence. Send those ships up now.”

Andy stares at his screen. The countdown taunts him. He glances back at Rumlow and regrets it; the man is giving him some serious crazy-eyes.

_They almost have what they want._

“Is there a problem?”

“Ah-” he stutters wordlessly. His hands are shaking. Every eye in the room is trained on him, and all Andy can think of is how pants-shittingly-terrified he is.

“ _Is there a problem?_ ”

“I’m sorry sir.” The words escape from his mouth against his will. His heartbeat thunders in his head, air suddenly hard to come by. Another minute ticks by on the countdown.

Andy breathes in slowly, and steadies himself. Thinks of his mums. “I’m not gonna launch those ships. Cap-Captain’s order.”

He hears the metallic click as Rumlow draws his gun, and Andy squeezes his eyes shut so he can’t see himself in the reflection of his computer screen.

“Move away from your station,” Rumlow growls at him and Andy bites his lip; he’s going to die. He’s certain, he’s-

“Like he said,” a woman says, and the room bursts into sound, agents on both sides shouting at each other as they draw their weapons. “Captain’s orders.”

Andy feels something cold and hard press into the back of his head and he gasps. “You picked the wrong side, Agent,” Rumlow sneers at Agent 13.

“Depends on where you’re standing,” she snipes back. Andy might fool himself in love with her, were he not so fucking terrified.

The gun pointed at his head pulls away and drops to the floor and he flinches at the sound, relief flooding through him, but Rumlow just pulls out a knife and digs it deep into Agent 13’s arm. She gasps in pain and drops to the floor, and the room explodes with gunfire, techs screaming and shouting as chaos erupts around them. Agent 13 lashes out at Andy with her foot, kicking him to the floor moments before Rumlow turns back around and tries to shoot him. He hides beneath his desk as the Strike agent does something to his computer, and then the man is running away, Agent 13 shooting after him with a furious look on her face.

Even from beneath his desk, Andy can read the giant red letters that appear on the main screen.

 _OVERRIDE_ , it screams at him, and the countdown behind it drops to 00:00:00.

_They almost have what they want._

Andy despairs.


	14. Chapter 14

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The fight in the Triskelion continues!!!!!

_June 14 th 2014_

The air raid siren is audible across the Triskelion, and Bucky picks up the pace; that sound can only mean one thing.

“ _They’re initiating launch_ ,” Maria tells them through their comm’s. The information is largely unnecessary; Bucky can already feel the ground beneath his feet rumbling as the massive hanger doors drain of water from the Potomac and begin to open.

“We got that, thanks!” Sam yells back. It’s strange to see him in Steve’s old suit; wrong in ways Bucky put into words, but he supposes it’s fitting, too. His own suit- that familiar coat he’d worn in Europe so long ago- chafes like a bitch, and the thick wool is hot and terrible. He’s still not quite sure why he agreed to put it on; some misplaced kind of nostalgia, knowing him.

To their horror, one of the helicarriers is already up in the air. Their boots pound across the concrete in tandem, neither of them out of breath yet, thanks to whatever ‘no frills’ serum is running through their veins (and, in Bucky’s case, some kind of drug that’s temporarily killed the pain receptors in his shoulder. Lucky him). Sam spares him a giddy grin. “Hey Barnes, how do you know the good guys from the bad guys?”

Bucky glares at him, and Sam’s grin just grows wider. He looks too happy about all of this for Bucky’s comfort; like a kid who’s just been told Christmas has come early. It’s a coping mechanism, he thinks, but that doesn’t mean he has to _like_ it. “How?” he asks sourly.

“If they’re shooting at you, they’re bad!” Sam cackles.

“Wha- that’s not even funny, Wilson!” he barks in disbelief.

Sam just laughs at him and clicks something on his rig. His wings spread out and with a bounding leap, he launches himself off the ground.

“If I could shoot you, I would!” Bucky yells after him, but Sam is long gone, looping through the air with a joyful whoop. Bucky shakes his head and puts on a little more speed; IN-03 is rising too, and if he misses his window, he’s fucked. He leaps over the edge of the hangar and lands on the tarmac in a controlled tumble; still, the landing knocks the breath out of him, but Bucky just picks himself up and keeps running. He manages to get behind a series of crates just as the Hydra agents realise where he is, and their bullets kick up ineffectual dust on his heels.

Good to see Hydra’s aim hasn’t improved much since the forties.

He dodges between the crates and bites back a curse as a Hydra agent rounds the corner of one, crashing straight into him. Bucky picks him up by the front of his bulletproof vest and throws him into the crate with enough force to shatter the glass of his goggles. He snatches a grenade from the man’s belt as he crumples, throwing it down the row and straight into the pack of agents attempting to ambush him. The explosion sends them flying, and Bucky doesn’t hang around to see if they’re okay.

Distantly he hears the guttural sounds of heavy artillery, and Sam cusses up a storm over the comm’s. “ _Found those bad guys!_ ” he shouts, sounding slightly breathless.

Bucky rolls his eyes. “You okay?”

“ _Just. Peachy!_ ”

The sound of more cannonfire. Bucky peeks around the corner of a crate and see’s black smoke and explosions from IN-02. He can’t see Sam, but from the commotion in his ears, he’s still in the air. Fuck, but that man can fly.

“ _Captain; status?_ ” Maria asks.

“ _Engaging!_ ” Another long string of cannonfire. Bucky makes a run for the door, shooting down three more Hydra agents along the way. “ _Alright, I’m in!_ ” Sam exclaims.

“ _Eight minutes, Barnes_ ,” Maria says. Bucky wonders how she can manage to sound so damn calm as he crashes into another agent, throwing them to the ground and stomping on their throat.

“I’m working on it!” he growls. He shoots a man in the face and they fall, and then he’s at the door and it’s blissfully unlocked. He sprints down the corridors; the route to the targeting array memorised, and could almost weep with relief when he comes across almost no one. It looks like Hydra, in their infinite wisdom (ha ha), decided to concentrate their manpower on the flight deck. Christ, but there’s not even anyone in the bay, and it’s laughably easy to open up the targeting system and swap over the blades.

* * *

Natasha watches Pierce watch the helicarriers as they try to shoot him out of the sky, and it takes almost all the self-control she has not to kill the bastard right then and there. She watches still, as he fixes his tie in the reflection of the glass and turn back to them, setting down his phone to pick up a glass of champagne.

“Let me ask you a question,” he says coolly, as though his big plan _isn’t_ on the cusp of being sabotaged. He turns to Singh. “What if Pakistan marched into Mumbai tomorrow, and you knew that they were gonna drag your daughter into a soccer stadium for execution?” He smiles as he hands over the champagne, and Singh takes it more out of reflex than desire. “And you could just… stop it. With a flick of a switch… Would you? Wouldn’t you all?”

Natasha watches the rest of them carefully, and tries not to think of the reality that _yes_ , she _would._ She _has._

Singh’s upper lip curls. “Not if it was _your_ switch,” the man says in contempt, and he throws the glass away. The other councilmen jump, startled by the sharp and foreign sound.

Pierce grins. It is not a welcoming one.

He’s grinning still when he takes the offered pistol from Rollins and aims it at Singh.

Natasha moves, kicking the back of Singh’s knee and pushing him over, out of the way of Pierce. Pierce steps forward and she’s on the man, wrenching the pistol from his grip and punching him in the face. His nose crunches satisfyingly and he staggers back, but Natasha is already turning away, throwing a Bite at one of the Strike agents and the gun at Rollins’ throat. Both go down. Her element of surprise now gone, she uses the momentum of the agent that tries to rush her, throwing him to the floor. His head snaps against the concrete and he doesn’t get back up. She finishes the other two off in a similar fashion, straightening just in time to stop Pierce mid-crouch, trying to pick up one of the agents’ stray guns.

She tilts her head and deactivates the mesh. “I’m sorry. Did I step on your moment?”

* * *

“Alpha is locked,” Bucky says triumphantly as the blades slide up into place.

“ _Nice_ ,” Maria says, and Bucky starts running back the way he came. “ _Captain, where are you now?”_

“ _I had to take a detour!”_ Sam says. He sounds stressed.

Bucky rounds a corner and crashes into another pack of agents. “You guys just don’t know when to fuckin’ quit, do you,” he growls at them, and shoots the first two down. His pistol clicks when he tries to shoot the third, the magazine empty, and he slams the grip into the woman’s temple instead. Tries not to feel guilty about it even as he kicks in the chest of the last agent. They fly backwards, and he hears a sickening _snap_.

He runs.

Sam whoops. “ _Oh yeah!_ ” he crows. And then a moment later, “ _Bravo locked!_ ”

Bucky laughs breathlessly. “Thank Christ. How much time we got, Hill?”

“ _Six minutes. Charlie Carrier’s forty-five degrees off your port bow_.”

“God,” Bucky drawls. He bursts through a door and back onto the runway, leaping straight over the motionless Hydra agents. “Practically forever.”

“ _Man, could you_ not _fucking jinx this?_ ” Sam snaps.

Another group of agents seem to materialise from nowhere and Bucky groans in frustration, changing course to avoid them. “I’m gonna need a ride, Wilson!”

“ _Let me know when you’re ready!_ ”

 _Fuck, I hate this_ , Bucky thinks to himself. The edge of the carrier draws nearer, and with a silent prayer, he jumps the last few yards and throws himself straight off the edge. “Now, Sam!”

Sam curses at him, but Bucky can’t hear it over the rush of the wind in his ears. He thinks he might be screaming, but there’s no air in his lungs- just a pure and vivid terror as he tumbles through the air. Through his watering eyes, he sees the ground grow clearer, and then something grabs onto his leg and his momentum is abruptly halted. Sam lets out a wordless scream as he pulls Bucky out of his freefall and Bucky squeezes his eyes shut, the world around him blurring into a shapeless smear. For a moment, he thinks they’re not going to make it, but then he feels his centre of gravity shift and they fly upwards.

Sam drops him down onto the carrier and Bucky lands in a graceless heap.

“Next time you do that, wear a fucking parachute!” he grouses. Bucky laughs shakily, and Sam offers him his hand, helping him stand up.

“Next time I do that, just let me fall to my fucking death.”

Sam punches him in the shoulder. “Asshole.”

“Whatever,” Bucky scowls. “Thanks for the save.”

They stalk across the tarmac, and Bucky’s only warning that there’s someone waiting for them is the soft ‘ _tap tap tap_ ’ of boots across the hard ground, and a dark blur that launches itself at him, throwing Bucky straight through a flimsy guardrail and over the side of the carrier.  

* * *

“Disabling the encryption is an executive order, it takes two Alpha level members,” Alexander says smugly. He may have lost control of this moment, but he is certain he still has the situation firmly in hand. 

Romanoff just smiles at him enigmatically and continues typing. He wants to slap the look right off her face, the upstart bitch. “Don’t worry,” she drawls, “company’s coming.”

And, as though perfectly in-tune with the agent’s thoughts, Alexander hears the tell-tale ‘ _fwop-fwop-flop-fwop’_ of a helicopter, coming in to land on the helipad outside. He turns, filled with confusion as he watches the rotors slow to a stop and a familiar figure steps out.

Fury.

He almost laughs. Does _no one_ appreciate the art of staying dead anymore? He’s not even surprised when the next person to stumble out of the helicopter is another one on his ‘should have been killed’ list. If the Soldier survives this, Pierce is going to put the useless creature down himself. This level of failure is unacceptable.

“Did you get my flowers?” he asks as the unlikely pair walk through the glass doors. Lewis doesn’t even look like she knows how to use the Glock in her hand. He smiles when Nick stares at him coldly. He can still re-take the reigns here. “I’m glad you’re here, Nick.”

“Really,” Nick says flatly. “‘Cause I thought you had me killed.”

He shrugs. “Oh, you know how the game works.”

“So why make me head of Shield?”

He huffs a mirthless laugh. Alexander doesn't even bother lying. “‘Cause you’re the best, and the most ruthless person I ever met.”

Nick’s eye narrows. “I did what I did to _protect_ people.”

“Our enemies are your enemies, Nick. Disorder, war. It’s just a matter of time before a dirty bomb goes off in Moscow, or an EMP fries Chicago. Diplomacy? It’s a holding action. Your ‘Avengers’?” he says the word with derision lacing his voice. “They’re loose cannons. How long do you think it will take, for one of them to go rogue? Take an order they don’t like? We already saw it happen in Manhattan.” He takes a step closer to Nick, grinning because he _knows_ this will hurt. “You know where I learned that? _Bogota_. You didn’t ask, you just did what had to be done.”

Fury sets his jaw, and if anything his glower intensifies. Alexander’s smile grows wider; that’s how he _knows_ he’s hit a nerve. “We could bring _order_ to the lives of seven billion people, just by sacrificing twenty million. This is the next step, Nick, if you have the courage to take it.”

“No, I have the courage _not_ to,” Nick sighs, and he takes Alexander’s shoulder and directs him towards computer screens. Alexander's upper lip curls as Romanoff does something to her computer and a voice states ‘Retinal scanner active’. He tries to turn away, but Romanoff comes up behind him, weapon aimed at his head. There’s a cold, hard look in her eyes; he doesn’t doubt she’d shoot him and get his biometrics the hard way.

“You don’t think we wiped your clearance from the system?”

Nick shrugs, unaffected. “I know you erased my password. Probably deleted my retinal scans, but if you want to stay ahead of me, _Mister Secretary_ ,” he spits the words out like a curse, and lifts up his free hand to remove his eyepatch from his face. The skin beneath is warped and ugly, the iris milked over. “You need to keep both eyes open.”

 _Fuck_ , Alexander thinks in dismay. _Didn’t think of that one._

* * *

“ _Barnes!_ ” he hears Sam cry over his comm, but Bucky is too busy trying to grab onto something to answer. His hands scrabble for purchase across endlessly smooth surfaces, but he still falls down, down, and all Bucky can think of is Darcy, because he’s going to die- he’s not going to come back for her, he’s not going to be able to see her smile or hear her laugh or-

His feet hit something vaguely flat, and he lashes out at it in a final attempt to hold on. His fingers grip so hard on the metal that he half imagines it buckles, and Bucky could almost sob with relief as he hangs in the air, a several hundred foot drop waiting below him.

“ _Barnes. Bucky, come in! Are you okay?_ ” Sam shouts through his earpiece, and Bucky grits his teeth at the volume.

“Still kicking,” he grits out, and Sam lets out an audible sob of relief. He heaves himself up onto the top of what he can only think is an exhaust pipe. Heat radiates from it in waves, like standing too close to a fire, and it hurts to breathe. “Know I told you to let me fall, but this is takin’ it a bit too far.”

Sam laughs. “ _Rogers broke my wings. I’m grounded_. _You’re on your own for this one._ ”

“Fucking brilliant,” Bucky growls. “Gotta do everything myself, don’t I.”

“ _Five minutes, Barnes!_ ” Maria says.

“I’m on it,” Bucky sighs and heads up to what looks like a door. He thinks he can still find a way down to the targeting bay with time to spare.

“ _Cap?”_ Maria asks. Bucky ignores them in favour of kicking down the maintenance door and he stalks through, gun at the ready. The change in temperature from outside is immediate.

“ _Yeah?_ ”

He runs down corridor after corridor, the place eerily empty of agents. “ _Rumlow’s headed for the Council._ ”

“ _I’m on it._ ”

Finally, he comes across an agent, but he barely spares them more than a cursory punch to the throat. Two more left turns and a set of stairs, and then Bucky’s in the targeting bay. He slows to a halt, his footsteps echoing down the metal grating.

Steve is already there, waiting for him in front of the control system.

Bucky swallows. Straightens his shoulders and tries not to think about how unnatural that dead expression is, on his friend’s face. “People are gonna die, Steve,” he says. “I can’t let that happen.”

Steve’s dead expression doesn’t change.

“Stand down, Stevie. _Please_ ,” Bucky pleads. Steve tilts his head, but makes no sign of backing down.

He breathes out slowly and sets his shoulders. _Please God,_ he prays _, let us get out of this alive. Let me see Darcy again._

He runs for Steve, the metal grating vibrating with his steps and Steve bursts into movement, shooting at Bucky even as he runs towards him. Two of his shots miss, but the third bullet tears through Bucky’s uniform, scraping over his ribs in a trail of searing pain. He grits his teeth and grabs onto the railing, swinging his feet up to kick Steve right in the chest. The man flies backwards and his handgun clatters down onto the glass below, but Steve’s up on his feet again before his back can even touch the ground.

Bucky tries to shoot at his knees, but Steve jumps out of the way with terrifying speed, and his right leg spins out with a brutal kick to his face that Bucky just barely manages to dodge. As though anticipating the move, Steve follows immediately after with a knife, and Bucky grabs at his wrist, twisting his grip viciously and digging his fingers into his flesh. Steve snarls at him in pain and drops the knife, but his other hand shoots out, grabbing Bucky by the front of his jacket and slamming him into the ground.

 Bucky cries out, winded, and shoots blindly at his friend’s legs. He’s rewarded with another sharp snarl of pain and Bucky scrambles back onto his feet, running for the blade system. He slams his hand on the panel and the blades slide down, but then Steve is on him again, and Bucky has to throw himself out of the way of another knife.

“I don’t wanna hurt you!” Bucky yells at him. Steve’s answer is another attempt to stab him, and Bucky dodges again and uses his momentum to grab at the harness of Steve’s suit and bodily launch him over the side of the railings. He lands with a heavy _thud_ on the glass.

Bucky sprints back for the targeting system, and hears Maria say, “ _Three minutes, Barnes. What’s your status?_ ”

“Occupied!” he shouts, and he pulls out the old chip from the system and tosses it over his shoulder. He takes the final blade out from a pocket in his uniform just as Steve hauls himself back onto the platform, running at Bucky headfirst. Startled, Bucky tries to use the same move again, but Steve anticipates it, and both of them fly over the rails, landing on a curved metal platform. The chip skitters out of his hand and Steve scrambles for it.

“No you fucking don’t!” Bucky roars, and he tackles him to the ground. They tussle, meeting each other blow-for-blow. Their weapons are forgotten for the moment, and Bucky desperately tries to get a hold of the chip, but Steve is canny this time, and he bares his teeth at Bucky in a terrifying, vicious smile.

“I’ll crush it!” he taunts, holding the chip out of Bucky’s reach. His voice is rough and gravelly, like he’s unused to speaking.

“You do that and we all die!” Bucky spits in his face, and he pulls a knife from the holster on Steve’s thigh and plunges it into the meatiest part of his shoulder, twisting the blade ruthlessly.

 _An eye for an eye_ , Bucky thinks bitterly as Steve screams, his outstretched arm curling in on itself reflexively. He plucks the chip from Steve’s lax grip and pushes the man off the platform, but Steve drags him down again and they fall and Bucky yells in frustration as the chip flies away again.

“I’m trying to save the world, you idiot!” he shouts, and desperate, he punches Steve right in his new wound. Steve’s howl is almost inhuman, and Bucky fucking _hates_ the sound, but does it again and lunges for the chip all the same, fingers closing around the cool glass at the same moment Steve grabs him by the ankle and pulls him back.

“ _Two minutes! Hurry it up, Barnes._ ”

Bucky pulls out his own knife and just barely manages to deflect Steve’s attack. He punches Steve’s shoulder again and stabs him in the stomach, desperately hoping he misses any vital organs. The man cries out, and Bucky curls in on himself, kicking Steve away. He jumps up and runs for the lowest platform, the chip tucked safely back into its pocket. Hauls himself up onto a group of metal rungs (why the hell are there no fucking ladders? Who designed this thing?), but falters when a bullet tears through his side.

Steve shoots at him again and the bullet ricochets off the metal just to the left of his head. Bucky grunts with exertion and pain, and swings himself up onto the uppermost platform. He sprints for the targeting system, dodging Steve’s shots just barely, and he slams the new blade into place as another bullet punches through his stomach.

Bucky slaps his hand over the controls as he falls to his knees, agony turning his legs to jelly, but could almost cry as the blades slide back up into place. “Charlie locked.”

“ _You did it!_ ” Maria cries, the most inflection in her voice that he’s heard since he met her. “ _Get out of there._ ”

Bucky hears Steve pull himself up onto the platform and bites back a sob of despair. “Don’t think that’s happening,” he groans, and he twists where he sits, levelling his final handgun at Steve. The man pauses several yards away, and Bucky fights to get his breath back. “Light ‘em up, Maria.”

A momentary pause over the comm. “ _Barnes_ -”

“I said fire!” he snaps, and for a moment he breaks his line of sight with Steve to look out to the city down below. Darcy’s down there somewhere, he thinks. Darcy’s down there somewhere, and she’s still alive, but Bucky’s fingers are sticky with blood and he can think of no way to find his way back to her.

* * *

“And the upload is... done,” Natasha says, taking a step back from the computer. She pulls out her phone; Darcy can see that her screen is already lighting up with notifications. She huffs a laugh. “Looks like it’s trending.”

Darcy catches the movement too late; one moment, Pierce is looking down at his hand, the next the councilmen are crying out, clutching at their chests as they crumple to the ground and she startles, lifting up her gun. Pierce holds his phone, an insufferably smug look on his face. The room fills unnervingly quickly with the scent of cooked flesh and Darcy swallows back a dry-retch.

“Unless you want a two inch hole in your sternum, I’d put that gun down,” Pierce says. He nods pointedly at the badge on Natasha’s chest, and Darcy’s blood runs cold. “That was armed the moment you pinned it on.”

Reluctantly, Natasha places her gun down on the pedestal, and Fury lowers his to the floor. Pierce snatches Natasha’s up, stepping away from her hastily and directs the weapon at her, even as his thumb hovers over the button on his phone. Darcy tries not to move from her spot, off to the side; _she’s invisible_ , she prays. A forgettable obstacle Pierce has forgotten about, distracted by the bigger and more competent fish.

From her position facing the windows, she’s the first to see the explosion. The sounds follows shortly after, muted through the thick glass walls, and Pierce twists to watch the Helicarriers begin to shoot each other out of the sky. Darcy’s gut clenches and her breath catches in her chest; somehow she just _knows_ Bucky’s still on one of them. The urge to curl into a ball and weep is almost overwhelming, but she stands rigid. She can break down _later_.

“What a waste,” Pierce grits out in thinly-veiled disgust. Darcy watches as he visibly collects himself, turning his attention towards Natasha. “Time to go, councilwoman. You’re gonna fly me out of here.”

They turn away from the spectacle, and without thinking she raises her gun, aiming at Pierce’s centre mass, just like her dad had taught her. The pair halt, and Pierce blinks at her, as though suddenly remembering she exists.

“Darcy Lewis,” he remarks benignly. He subtly shifts so his body is shielded behind Natasha’s. “I have to say, I was surprised to learn you’d survived this long.”

Her hands are shaking, she realises, and Darcy clenches her jaw. She ignores the way Natasha is glaring daggers at her, silently begging her to back down.  “You ordered my best friend’s death,” she breathes, voice unsteady.

Pierce’s lips twitch. “You mean Foster? I did. In all fairness, you were meant to die too.”

“ _Why?_ ”

His smile is disarmingly self-depreciating. “It was an act of war. You three would be the spark that kindled the bonfire. The Asgardian’s retaliation would have made Nick accelerate Insight, and in the end, everything would have played into our hands. Of course,” he adds sourly, “then the Soldier had to _lie_ about his success and we were forced to accelerate the plan.”

“Fuck you,” she spits out. “We are _not_ your pawns.”

“If you don’t want to be a pawn, I’d suggest you’re in the wrong company,” he drawls. “Now move aside, Lewis.

Behind him, Darcy sees the first of the helicarriers give up the ghost and fall back to Earth, and the only thing that keeps her standing is the ruby red writing on her wrist. He’s not dead. Not yet. “No.”

Pierce smirks, glancing pointedly down at her trembling grip on her gun. “You’re not going to shoot me, Darcy,” he says and she flinches at the use of her first name. “You wouldn’t have the balls. Now _move_.”

At his behest, Natasha starts moving again, and Fury calls out. “You know, there was a time I would have taken a bullet for you.”

Pierce chuckles, twisting to glance back at the other man. “You already did-”

In his moment of distraction, Natasha lifts a hand to the lapel of her blazer and activates a Widow’s Bite. Darcy screams as the other woman seizes and falls, squeezing the trigger once-twice- before she can truly realise what she’s done. Pierce staggers backwards from the force of the hits, staring at her with surprise.

“You _bitch_ ,” he breathes, and he collapses. Darcy’s shots missed his heart, but the shot looks fatal. His breath rattles in his chest as blood quickly pools beneath him. Fury rushes over, tossing away the gun he’d snatched from one of the unconscious Hydra agents. He crouches down beside Natasha, gripping her shoulder and shaking it gently.

“Romanoff- Natasha! Natasha- come on!”

She doesn’t move for a long moment, and Darcy could almost cry when she shifts and groans in Fury’s arms. “ _Oww_. Those really do sting.”

Pierce chokes and gasps for breath, mouth bloody, and Natasha twists to see the source of the sound. She stares at him with a detached kind of curiousity. “What happened?”

“Turns out,” Fury says dryly, “Lewis’ got the balls afterall.”

 “Sorry,” Darcy says to him, feeling slightly hysterical. She drops the gun, only just realising she’s still holding it. “I think I stole your kill.”

* * *

“ _I’m sorry_ ,” Maria says quietly as the first explosion rocks the carrier. Bucky bites his lip and turns back to Steve; the man is staring at him with a strange, unreadable look on his face.

“S’fine,” he says. He swallows again. “Tell her I-”

He breaks off as the helicarrier shudders, harder this time, part of the glass beneath them exploding. “Shit!” he gasps, and the metal platform collapses, tossing them both down onto what’s left of the targeting array. Steve is on him immediately and Bucky screams at him in frustration.

“We’re going to die, you stupid fuck!” he shouts at him and he holds his gun up to Steve’s chest. “Steve- Steve _please, don’t!_ ”

But Steve just wrenches the gun from Bucky’s grip and tosses it away. He hauls Bucky up by the front of his jacket and holds him up in the air. Bucky tries to struggle- tries to get out of his grip- but everything hurts and he’s tired and he _just wants to be home with Darcy_ -

“Who am I?” Steve snarls, shaking Bucky like a ragdoll. Bucky stares down at him in shock

“I- what?”

“ _Who. Am I?_ ” Steve asks again, his eyes wide and desperate.

Bucky gapes and Steve shakes him again. He bites back a cry of pain at the movement. He can taste blood; heavy and metallic on his tongue. “Steve- your name is Steve Rogers,” he gasps, gripping at Steve’s wrists in case the man decides to throw him away. The air around them is thick with smoke, and it burns his eyes, making them tear up. “You’re my best friend. You’ve known me your whole life!”

Steve stares up at him without comprehension and Bucky reaches for his face with a trembling hand. “I don’t-” Steve tries to say as Bucky smears his bloodied fingers over his cheek. The contact makes him flinch and Bucky smiles at him sadly.

“They told me you’d died,” he says, heart breaking. The helicarrier continues to crumble around them, and he’s vaguely aware that they’re falling. “‘M sorry I left you, pal. Guess this’ll be the end of the line.”

Steve’s eyes widen with the briefest flash of recognition. He tries to speak, but another explosion rocks through the targeting bay and the platform shudders violently. Steve staggers backwards and Bucky falls from his grip. He tries to make a grab for the metal grating but it slips out of his bloodied grasp, shuddering again.

He tumbles backwards, shouting with surprise, and this time there’s nothing to break his fall.

 “Bucky-!” He thinks he hears Steve shout, and Bucky sees him fall to his knees, trying to reach for him but he’s too far out of reach.

 _Where are those wings when you need them?_ Bucky thinks hysterically as he falls. When he closes his eyes, Darcy and Steve’s face war behind his eyelids.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ( ͡° ͜ʖ ͡°)
> 
> sooooo glad I managed to fit Pierce's death in here!

**Author's Note:**

> If any of you are interested in reading another play on the reversal of the classic time travel trope, I suggest reading ['20th Century Boy'](http://archiveofourown.org/works/8686531/chapters/19913845). 
> 
> Likewise, feel free to always pop over to my [tumblr](http://cinnaatheart.tumblr.com) ^.^


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